


tonight make me unstoppable

by 1000_directions



Series: luckyverse [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, M/M, Metal Arm Kink, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Starbucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 18:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13618998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/pseuds/1000_directions
Summary: “Cheers,” Louis says, raising his glass and then swallowing down the rest of it with a grimace. “Fuck, this conversation is a little dark for a first date, innit? You have any hobbies? Favorite band? Any pets?”“I don’t like dogs,” Bucky says.“I know you don’t like dogs,” Louis says with a smile. “We’ll have to work on that.”“Yeah?”“Yeah,” Louis says, stroking his thumb over Bucky’s metal wrist. It’s a light touch, but sometimes that’s almost worse, and Bucky shudders as his mechanoreceptors go a little haywire from the unexpected contact.Bucky rolls and he rolls until he changes his luck.





	tonight make me unstoppable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dearmrsawyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearmrsawyer/gifts).



> “lol maybe i should write louis/winter soldier for rarepair fest” I said AS A JOKE, and two months later, here we are. My only knowledge of Bucky Barnes comes from watching the Captain America movies a few times. I’m not involved in fandom, and I don’t read fic or comics, so I don’t know what other people have been doing with him as a character, but this is what I chose to do with him.
> 
> If you aren’t familiar with the Marvel Cinematic Universe, this is pretty much all you need to know: Bucky Barnes was a WWII soldier who was lost and presumed dead during a mission. Seventy years later, it was discovered that he had been kidnapped and brainwashed, renamed the Winter Soldier, and forced to carry out dozens of attacks and assassinations for HYDRA. In between these events, he was cryogenically frozen, which is how he’s stayed alive and young for so long. Also, he lost his left arm, and HYDRA gave him a badass metallic robo-arm to replace it. He was also scientifically enhanced with an experimental procedure that gave him super strength and endurance. He isn’t brainwashed anymore, but he still has to live with the knowledge that he did some really terrible things. 
> 
> Also: Peter Parker is Spider-Man (college-aged in this story), S.H.I.E.L.D. is the good guys, the Avengers are a team of superheroes, HYDRA is the bad guys. That should be enough to get you through it, but feel free to ask me if you have any questions or need any clarification.
> 
> This is set in 2020, so it’s canon compliant ~ish, but I’ve extrapolated a bit. Also, I know the actual Runyon Canyon is super popular and full of dogs and people, but for the purpose of this fic and my sanity, it’s a bit more secluded. I guess people just hike less when they live in a world with superheroes and aliens ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> This fic would not be possible without the original prompt from louissgoldchain on tumblr. Thank you for...whatever this ended up being lol. Also thank you, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to Alex for being so positive and encouraging and for helping me get some perspective on this thing when I was way too close to it and just needed someone to let me know if it was even a little bit good or not.
> 
> Happy birthday, Jamila <3

The story goes the Americano is called that because during World War II, unrefined American soldiers couldn’t stomach the bitter European coffee, so they had to water it down; the European soldiers called this bastardization an Americano to make fun of shitty American palates. These days, people act like the Americano is some fancy, cultured drink, only for really discerning tastes. They don’t get that they’re the butt of the joke.

Bucky doesn’t know if that story is true; they certainly didn’t have any drink called an Americano when _he_ was crisscrossing Europe in the ‘40s. He orders them now because he likes them, but it doesn’t really remind him of the sharp, bitter coffee he’d had in the service. Maybe other people can’t tell the difference. Maybe someone who drank it as a young man would have a sip of an Americano today, decades later, and feel some nostalgia. But their memories are hazy, like memories get. Only Bucky feels that time sharply, has a weirdly perfect recollection of what it was like to be a soldier, far from home, drinking unfamiliar drinks an ocean away from Brooklyn. He remembers it like it was yesterday.

It’s the seventy-odd years in between then and now that’s fuzzy.

*

He’s at Starbucks, pretending to fuck around on his phone while he waits for his drink to come up. He’s been retired a few years now, and he doesn’t draw as much attention out here in Los Angeles as he used to back in New York. But he still gets the obvious stares and the awkward eye contact, so he’s just opening and closing the calculator app in an attempt to look busy. He knows people are probably looking at him anyway; he always feels the weight of their eyes, their expectations, heavy on his shoulders. But he keeps his head ducked and his gaze down. _Open app. Close app. Open app. Close app. Breathe in and out and in and out._

They finally call out his drink, and he collects it and heads over to the condiment bar. He’s stirring a sugar into his coffee when he hears someone walking towards him. His spine stiffens, and his muscles tense. He counts three different exit paths from where he’s standing. It’s been a few years, but some instincts don’t go away.

“Oi! Aren’t you the Winter Soldier?”

It’s a male voice, Northern English accent. Yorkshire for sure. Sheffield, maybe? It’s hard to be precise. The vowels are a little deprecated, like he lost a bit of his accent and then tried to find it again. It doesn’t matter, _it doesn’t matter_. His S.H.I.E.L.D. therapist says with time and practice and more cognitive awareness, he should be able to stop these thoughts. He can’t imagine being any more cognitively aware than he already is, cataloging every movement and change and sound and smell around him. If he becomes any more tuned-in to the noise in his head, he fears he’ll get lost in it.

“Sorry to bother you, mate,” the voice says again, sounding a little more hesitant this time. “Don’t mean to intrude. I know how it is.”

Bucky methodically replaces the lid on his drink and throws the stirrer in the trash. _Complete one task before undertaking the next._ Then he turns around and sizes up the man who was speaking to him.

Caucasian male, late twenties. Dark hair, light eyes. A bit shorter than Bucky, maybe 5’8 or 5’9. Slim, but not toned. Short reddish beard and mustache, well groomed. No distinctive scars or piercings. Lots of distinctive tattoos over his forearms and hands. His posture is slouched, casual, disarming. He’s wearing a pristine black sweatsuit with his pant-legs tucked into his socks and the sleeves pushed up over his elbows. He’s smiling hesitantly, and he’s very, very attractive. Objectively.

“How can I help you?” Bucky asks, the words formal and awkward in his throat. _It could be a trap, it could be a trap, it co--_

“Just fancied a photo with a legend,” the man says, eyes wide and a little skittish. He licks his lips, pressing the tip of his tongue to the dry corners of his mouth. It’s unpracticed, unconscious. A nervous tic. Interesting.

“I don’t--” Bucky starts to say, and the man’s face falls slightly. But he recovers with a wolfish smile that’s only a little bit betrayed by his eyes.

“It’s fine, mate. Really, didn’t want to trouble you. Shit, I should know better than anyone, yeah?” he says with a half-hearted laugh.

Bucky doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but he doesn’t really do pictures and fan service anymore. He...isn’t anyone. He used to be something, but he isn’t _that_ anymore. He’s trying to be something else, and he never will be if he keeps letting people tell him that he’s still...this.

So he doesn’t really know what compels him to say, “One picture never hurt anyone.” But when the man’s face lights up, when his smile gets brilliant and huge, when little crinkles form near his eyes, it feels worth it.

“Sick,” the man says. “Just one selfie and I’ll leave you alone.” He positions himself next to Bucky, their shoulders brushing in a way that should be casual. He stretches his arm out so the phone is looking down on them, fusses with his hair a little bit, checks his reflection, changes the angle of his chin a few times, then asks, “You ready?”

“Ready,” Bucky says. He feels the heat of the man’s arm against the seam of his own, the place where his old body meets his new body and his senses get a little bit screwy.

“Got it,” the man says. “Shit, I can’t believe I met the Winter Soldier.”

“Bucky,” he says.

“Sorry?” the man says, looking up from his phone for the first time since taking the picture.

“I don’t use that name anymore. It’s just Bucky.”

“Right, sorry,” the man says, chewing on his lip. “Well, nice to meet you, Bucky.”

“What...is your name?” Bucky asks. _Don’t ask that. Don’t prolong this. Say goodbye and go home._

“I’m Louis,” he says, blinking slowly. He has extraordinarily long, dark eyelashes and a faint cluster of freckles on his left cheek: two along his nasolabial fold and a third slightly superior and lateral, near where the facial artery crosses his maxilla if the pinkening of his cheeks is any indication.

 _Stop_.

“I should…,” Bucky says, gesturing vaguely behind himself without looking away from Louis, who nods quickly.

“Right, right. Didn’t mean to keep you. Would it be okay if I posted this on Instagram?”

“That’s….” People don’t normally give Bucky the option. He doesn’t like having his picture out there, but being given the choice and the control makes it suddenly feel appealing. “That’s fine.”

“Are you sure? Really don’t want to make you uncomfortable, mate. Don’t mind keeping it just for me.” Louis’ cheeks are flaming red now, and Bucky can almost hear his pulse.

“Post it,” Bucky says, and something brazen and unexpected surfaces within him, compels him to add, “Tag me in it.”

“Cheers,” Louis says, and he’s smiling that same smile from before, the genuine one that transforms his whole face. “All right then, suppose I’ve wasted enough of your time. Just wanted to say hi and rub shoulders with a personal hero of mine.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He smiles tightly and walks the eighteen steps to the door, and as he heads out to the street, he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. He’s never going to see Louis again, never going to see that cheeky smile or hear that lilting voice, but it’s going to be emblazoned in his memory forever, just one more detail running through his head at night when he can’t sleep. There are a lot of things Bucky wishes he could forget. This won’t be one of them.

*

A few hours later, he gets the first notification.

_louist91 tagged you in a photo._

Bucky taps the notification to open the app. He isn’t very savvy with social media, but Peter set it up for him on his phone ages ago, and he forgets it’s even there most of the time. He doesn’t get tagged very often, and he never posts any pictures of his own. He just browses through it on rare occasions to see what his friends are eating or if they’ve traveled anywhere new. It’s a little off-putting, seeing all of them together somewhere without him. When given the option, he’d decided he didn’t want to be an Avenger, and he doesn’t regret that choice. But that doesn’t make it any easier to see pictures of them together, happy and successful and competent and powerful. He left, and then it was barely any time at all before it was like he’d never even been there.

By the time the app finally loads, Bucky has thirty-one notifications from friends liking and commenting on the picture.

It’s a good picture. Bucky isn’t quite smiling, but he looks relaxed in a way that he rarely does. Louis has one eyebrow cocked and is pointing at Bucky with his index finger. Bucky has posed for this same picture with fans so many times, and he knows that for some people, he’s just a prop for them to stand beside. But somehow, he and Louis don’t look like strangers. There’s a warmth in Louis’ eyes and a softness to his smirk. Something about the picture looks easy and familiar, and Bucky feels jealous of that version of himself, that photographed backwards image that doesn’t exist outside of Instagram.

He looks carefree and okay and normal, just in that moment, even though he knows he isn’t really any of those things.

The notifications keep coming. Peter likes the picture. Tony likes the picture. Natasha likes the picture. Peter leaves a comment: _Lookin good, bro!!_ Louis likes Peter’s comment. Steve likes the picture.

Bucky closes and locks his phone, and he places it facedown for good measure. He changes into his running gear, and even as he’s lacing up his sneakers and heading out the door, he can hear his phone vibrating and beeping from the kitchen counter, but he doesn’t check it. He places his earbuds in his ears, snaking the cord into his pocket, attached to nothing. He doesn’t like listening to music when he runs, but he doesn’t want to be approached either.

This is going to be the day, he decides. Today, he will run until he gets tired. But he runs, and he runs, and the sun goes down, and he runs, and the air gets chilly, and he runs, and no matter what he does, no matter how hard he pushes himself, his endurance doesn’t flag, and his muscles don’t protest, and he runs, and the sun comes up. So he goes home, strips off and showers although he’s barely even broken a sweat, and he falls into bed, his phone still weakly alerting him from the other room.

_Sleep. Don’t think about anything. No crazy thoughts, no shitty distant memories that feel fuzzy around the edges until you find the devastating sharp corners. Just fucking sleep for once._

It never works. He remembers a dog he saw on his run, he remembers a man he murdered in cold blood. He remembers a good sandwich he ate last week, he remembers a young girl whose life he couldn’t save seven years ago. He remembers a radio jingle from when he was a kid, he remembers the way Louis’ voice sounded saying his name, and then he freezes there. And he thinks about Louis. He rolls the memory of those four and a half minutes they spent together round and round in his head until the edges smooth down like a marble. And when he’s done with the memory, he extrapolates. He nevers lets himself do this, but he’s tired of never being tired, and he wants to sleep. So he imagines Louis smiling at him, asking him about his day, going for a walk with him around the block. He imagines filling up his Instagram feed with pictures of them together, casual and easy and intimate. He hasn’t made a new friend in almost a decade, but just this once, he imagines forming a new friendship. He imagines _Louis, Louis, Louis_ , until he finally, mercifully falls asleep.

*

When Bucky wakes up early that afternoon, he closes all the notifications and opens up the app and looks at the picture one more time. Louis has simply captioned it _what a legend !_ followed by an emoji wearing sunglasses. The picture has 1,246,938 likes.

Bucky understands, on some level, that people consider him a public figure and a celebrity. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to him, but he’s aware of it. But even so, a fan posting a picture of him is usually good for a few hundred or maybe a thousand likes at best. 1,246,938 people don’t give a shit that Bucky met a fan at Starbucks.

He clicks over to Louis’ profile. His full name is Louis Tomlinson, and he has 17.4 million followers.

Bucky calls Peter.

“Who is Louis Tomlinson?” he asks when Peter answers.

“Dude, you’re going to have to start Googling things yourself,” Peter grumbles. “I know you know how to use Wikipedia.”

“This is faster,” he says simply. “Who is Louis Tomlinson?”

“Hang on, I just need like eight-tenths of a second to look it up, which is all it would have taken for you to do it yourself.”

They’ve built an odd friendship over the years. Peter is young enough to be in touch with the bits of modern American culture that Bucky doesn’t understand, and for a while, he was starstruck enough to help Bucky with whatever he needed. He’s starting to talk back now, but Bucky finds he almost likes that more. There aren’t a lot of people in his life willing to sass him.

“Okay,” Peter says about a minute later. “Looks like Louis Tomlinson used to be in One Direction until they split up. He released one solo album, but it doesn’t look like he’s done much in the last few years.”

“What is One Direction?”

“Oh my god, dude, come on,” Peter says. “You were definitely unfrozen when One Direction happened. Why are you like this?”

“I don’t remember everything just because I was around for it,” Bucky says. “Some things caught my interest, and other things didn’t.”

“They were a band,” Peter says. “Well, a boyband. Do you know what a boyband is?”

“Yes, Peter, I know what a boyband is,” Bucky says. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“I’m going to do you the courtesy of not answering that,” Peter says and hangs up.

Five minutes later, Bucky gets a text from Peter. It’s a grainy picture of a younger-looking Louis with his arms around a man with short dark hair and light eyes. Louis is up on his toes, flushed and happy-looking, and he’s pressing his lips to the corner of the other man’s mouth.

 _You’re in luck, bro!_ Peter texted him. _Looks like he’s into dudes!!_

Bucky deletes the picture, deletes his conversation with Peter, deletes Peter’s contact from his phone, puts his phone facedown in a drawer, and goes for a seven-hour run.

*

Three weeks later, Bucky is in line at Starbucks ordering his usual Americano. In his peripheral vision, he sees a figure in a sweatsuit and a baseball cap approach the counter to collect a drink. _Louis_. But when Bucky turns his head, it isn’t Louis at all, doesn’t resemble him a single bit.

Bucky is never wrong about things like this. He just isn’t. He notices everything, always, whether he wants to or not. He’s so caught off guard by this error in observation that he misses the cashier trying to get his attention so she can take his drink order. He finally mumbles to her that he wants a medium Americano, steadfastly ignoring the concerned look on her face as he pays with his app. He’s missing one thing after another today. What the fuck? What the _fuck_?

When Bucky declined the offer to join the new Avengers, the compromise was that he had to agree to routine tests and counseling at an approved S.H.I.E.L.D. facility to make sure his HYDRA programming was still dormant and he wasn’t a threat to public safety. Testing is done twice a year, and the counseling is once every two months, with an understanding that he will report back sooner if he notices anything different or alarming. Things haven’t escalated to that point yet, but he needs to be especially vigilant now. He can’t be making silly mistakes. When Bucky loses control, people die, and there’s no room on his conscience for any more bloodstains.

That night, Bucky opens up Instagram. He looks at that picture of him and Louis one more time, even though each line of it is already seared into his brain. A brand on his amygdala. He likes the picture, watching the heart fill in red. Then he deletes the app from his phone. He can’t afford these foolish distractions.

*

The next morning, Bucky wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing. It’s Jemma, his S.H.I.E.L.D. liaison. She was originally assigned to be his diagnostic physician, but since she’s the only person in the organization he even halfway gets along with, they put her in charge of him entirely. He’s technically still on retainer for S.H.I.E.L.D., but for all practical purposes, he’s retired, so he doesn’t think that he causes Jemma too much extra work. She calls him every five or six weeks with a media offer he nearly always rejects: interview for an “Oral History of the New Avengers” Rolling Stone magazine feature ( _no_ ), request for memorabilia donations for a silent auction to benefit the local children’s hospital ( _no, but write them a check_ ), opportunity to be on the judging panel for an “America’s Next Avenger” reality show ( _for fuck’s sake, Jemma, not in a million years_ ).

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes!” she trills when he answers the phone. “It’s supposed to be a beautiful day today. Have you made it over to Runyon Canyon yet? I don’t care for that much hiking myself, but it’s supposed to be remarkable!”

“Not yet, Jemma,” he says. He hates these calls, but he can begrudgingly admit that she’s adorable. “What do you have for me today?”

“It’s an odd one,” she says. “I don’t normally trouble you with this sort of request, but it came through very official channels, so I thought I might as well keep you informed.”

“What is it?”

“You have a request from an individual in the entertainment industry who is seeking your personal contact information. A Mr. Louis Tomlinson has asked for your mobile phone number.”

“What?”

“I’m not familiar with this individual, so I did prepare a dossier on him, if you’d like me to send that over to you.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Bucky says. “I’ll take a look at it.”

“Am I right to assume that I should not pass along any of your personal information to his representative?”

“Is it okay if I think about this for a little while?” _What is there to think about? Tell her no. This is complicated and suspicious, and there’s no reason to prolong it._ “Don’t give them any information, but don’t tell them no yet either. If that’s okay.”

“That’s perfectly all right, Mr. Barnes,” Jemma replies. “I won’t bother you any longer. I’ll send over that dossier as soon as we disconnect. And please do spend some time in the sunshine today. It really is supposed to be lovely outside.”

“Thank you, Jemma,” Bucky says, ending the call. Fifteen seconds later, he has an email from j.fitzsimmons@shield.gov. It’s triple-encrypted, requiring a password, a retinal scan, and a fingerprint to unlock. Jemma does love her protocol.

Finally, he’s got the report pulled up on his screen. The first page is just demographic information. Louis William Tomlinson, born Louis Troy Austin on December 24th, 1991, in Doncaster, South Yorkshire. He wasn’t too far off with his accent analysis then. Bucky tries to continue reading, but his eyes keep being drawn back to the two images at the top of the page. One is a standard, slightly grainy but official-looking headshot, possibly from a passport. Louis’ hair is even shorter than it is now, and he looks very serious. The other is a different kind of headshot, like an actor or a model would have. He looks relaxed and friendly. Devastatingly angular. Bucky knows at least some of that is due to photo retouching, but still. There’s something arresting about that face, and it’s making him stupid.

Bucky scrolls idly through the next few pages, looking for more pictures. Instead, he finds a list of songs Louis has written, detailed information about the four properties he owns, tax returns for the last three years, and an arrest report for battery with the charges ultimately dropped.

The last few pages are screen captures of Louis’ recent social media. He’s only posted to Instagram once since his picture with Bucky: a photo of him and a young blond boy, both sticking their tongues out with their eyes crossed.

At the end of the report is Louis’ twitter activity over the last thirty days, arranged chronologically. Most days, he didn’t appear to use the account at all, but there are irregular bursts of activity here and there, fifteen or twenty tweets all at once, then nothing. It’s mostly meaningless, just replies to other accounts:

 _@alwaysyoutommo ha ha don’t get defensive love_  
_@louist23943 neither !_  
_@ltalbum02 might start working on something next year . just enjoying life now !  
_ _@louisbarnes ha nice username there . cheeky !_

Bucky’s just about ready to close the document and pretend he never saw it when he notices Louis’ tweets from last night:

 _Anyone out there know the official shield twitter account ?_  
_@louissmolfan14 mind your own business and don’t get smart !_  
_@aimhlouist tried that thanks though  
_ _@SHIELDPR check your DMs please !_

Well. That’s an unorthodox way to get something accomplished.

Bucky scrolls back to the beginning of the dossier to start reading again, when he receives several text messages in a row from an unknown number.

 _Sorry about before_  
_Not that I was wrong or anything you rly need to learn how to take a joke better  
_ _But I was really trying to be helpful!! Don’t be mad at me pls pls pls_

 _Who is this?_ Bucky texts back.

_ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME DID U REALLY FUCKING DELETE MY CONTACT AGAIN?!?!_

Oh shit, he forgot to add Peter’s contact info back into his phone. In his defense, Bucky deletes his contact four or five times a year, so Peter should be used to it by now.

Bucky really hates texting, because the touchscreen only recognizes his metal fingers about half the time, so he calls Peter instead.

“Why are you sorry?” he asks before Peter can say anything.

“For that picture of Louis kissing that dude,” Peter says. “But I did look into it more, and he’s definitely into guys. Like, that dude was his boyfriend for a year or something.”

“Why would I care about that?”

“Absolutely no reason. I’m just letting you know as a public service that the extremely attractive man you asked me about a few weeks ago is single and has a history of dating men, and you can do whatever you want with that information.”

“I don’t want to do anything with that information,” Bucky says and hangs up.

He adds Peter’s contact back into his phone, and he remembers the first time he’d ever deleted it. It was a few years ago, and Peter had sent him a very long text that began, _Don’t be mad, but_ and then proceeded to reveal that he had a lot of gay and bisexual friends, and times were different than they were in the 40s, and it was okay to be proud of whoever he was, and Peter was always there if he wanted to talk about anything or needed help finding resources or a date. Followed by a very short text that just said _btw you should definitely learn how to use an incognito window for your porn, just saying_. Bucky didn’t respond, and they’ve never addressed it directly. But Peter occasionally makes comments alluding to the possibility that Bucky likes men, and Bucky always sidesteps it without actually refuting him, because he’s not entirely wrong, but he’s not exactly right, either.

Bucky isn’t like other people. He doesn’t have the luxury of a simple understanding of himself. He likes Louis, but so what? Louis wouldn’t be interested in someone like him. No one should probably be interested in someone like him. So what’s the point in identifying as anything if it’s never going to matter?

Anyway, he hasn’t liked anyone at all in a long time, but that passed, and this will, too.

*

And life goes on. And Bucky goes for runs, and he goes to Starbucks, and he spends hours clicking random links on Wikipedia, trying to piece together the seventy years he lost when he was frozen and these past five years that have somehow evaded him even as he was allegedly living them. The Tet Offensive. _I Love Lucy_. Watergate. The Rolling Stones. The Civil Rights Act of 1964. Justin Bieber. He reads and reads, and he waits for a pattern to emerge from the chaos, but it never does.

He finds a list called “100 Things To Do Before You Die,” and he crosses off the ones he’s already done ( _see the Northern Lights, visit all seven continents, become a millionaire, see Mount Everest, learn a foreign language_ ), and he considers the ones he hasn’t done that seem attainable ( _see the Great Barrier Reef, go whale-watching, ride an elephant, go to a rock concert_ ).

And then there are some items on the list that are so far away from who he is and what he imagines his life could ever look like:

_Get married._

_Create a loving and happy home._

_Discover my life’s purpose._

_Learn to forgive._

And he just keeps going about his routine: eat, run, drink coffee, pretend to sleep, drink coffee, run, run, run. And he blends in among everyone else, and he thinks he even manages to convince most of them that he’s just a normal person, but he knows, he _knows_ that he isn’t like the rest of them, and something broken inside of him ensures that he never will be.

And so he gets out of bed after pretending to sleep for six hours, and he walks to Starbucks, and he gets in line, and he orders his Americano, and then he moves aside to wait. And he sizes up the crowd like he always does, because it never turns off. The woman behind the counter making his drink is the same woman who’s been there eighteen out of his last twenty-seven visits, and she’s always been kind to him, and she’s probably just an employee, she’s probably not someone S.H.I.E.L.D. has appointed to monitor him and make sure that he leaves his house a few times a week and interacts with the public. And the man talking on his phone near the door is probably just some grumpy businessman, and if his eyes keep darting around the café, he’s probably just impatient that the line is keeping him from returning to his shitty important job, he’s probably not casing anything, he’s not looking for Bucky specifically, he isn’t reporting back to HYDRA on that phone. Probably. And that little kid in the Spider-Man hoodie is--

Okay, so _he’s_ probably not a spy.

Actually, he’s pretty cute, as far as Bucky can tell. He doesn’t really get kids. He left home too young to see any of his nieces or nephews or young cousins come into being, and he’s been too isolated in the years since. But he knows that some children are funny or smart or reckless or wise beyond their years, and he knows that some parents are good, and some parents are nightmares, and some parents mean well but still can’t quite be what that little person needs them to be. He knows these things faintly, like they feel true but might not stand up to rigorous testing. Bucky prefers to be more certain in his knowledge, but people have so many variables.

So he tries to be objective. Male child, four or five years old, 3’8, blond hair, eye color impossible to discern from this distance. Red and blue Spider-Man hoodie, black sweatpants, white athletic shoes. No facial hair. No distinguishing scars, piercings, or tattoos. He’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, and then he’s tapping his toes rhythmically, and then he’s crouching down and leaping explosively from side to side. He doesn’t do any one thing for more than twenty seconds, and he is always in motion. And now he’s looking at Bucky, and his eyes are huge and expressive, and he’s saying, “Dad, dad, dad!” and yanking on the sleeve of a man standing next to him, who is a caucasian male in his late twenties, dark hair, light eyes, approximately 5’8 or 5’9, because it’s Louis, the boy is here with Louis, who is apparently his father, because Louis apparently has a son, and now both of them are looking at Bucky.

The two of them are standing about 37 feet away. Too far for a conversation, though Louis’ mouth falls open anyway. But before either of them can do anything about it, the boy leaves Louis’ side like a blur, running across the store on gangly legs that shouldn’t propel him as effectively as they do. He makes a beeline for Bucky, ignoring the other customers who have to move out of the way at the last moment.

And when he’s a few feet in front of Bucky, he looks up at him calmly, and from this distance, Bucky can see that he has the same blue eyes that Louis does.

“You’re the Winter Soldier,” the boy informs him very seriously.

“Yes,” Bucky agrees. “I am. Who are you?”

“I’m _Spider-Man_!” the boy proclaims dramatically. He charges at Bucky with his head down, runs right into his thigh and harmlessly bounces off again.

From across the store, Louis is trying to make his way over, a panicked expression on his face, but a crowd is starting to gather, and he’s having trouble getting through. But Bucky can still faintly hear the way he’s muttering _fuck, fuck, fuck_ to himself as he tries to reach them.

“We’re in a fight!” the boy is saying now. He takes a few steps back and crouches down, glaring up at Bucky menacingly. “You stole all the hot chocolate in the world, and I’m gonna get it back!”

Bucky definitely didn’t steal any hot chocolate and can’t imagine a scenario where... _anyone_ would steal all the hot chocolate, but he recognizes that this is a form of cooperative play, important for childhood development, and if he doesn’t understand children very well, at least he really, really understands fighting.

“You’ll never stop me,” Bucky says solemnly. “All the chocolate is mine now, and you and all your friends will have to drink kale smoothies.”

“No!” the boy shrieks. “I will defeat you!”

He charges at Bucky again, and in the five seconds before they meet, three thoughts occur to Bucky. First, he’s in a public place, and people are watching, and he doesn’t like being in a public place where people are watching, and the longer this goes on, the more people will see.

Second, this child is Louis’ son, and if he doesn’t interact with this child appropriately, Louis will be disappointed or hurt or upset in some capacity. If he _does_ humor this child, Louis might be happy.

Third, he’s fought Peter so many times by now that his body can react with very little prompting from him. Bucky can recall complicated fight sequences muscle for muscle, down to very small details, and he pulls up one of these memories and takes a deep breath, and then he prepares to dance the fight like very unusual choreography.

The child runs, and when he’s about two feet away, Bucky explodes backwards like he’s been hit. Every second seems to happen in slow motion, and he leads his body through a series of subtle shifts so that he lands in a controlled crouch, and then he springs back to his feet.

“You got me, but you’ll never defeat me,” Bucky says. He walks slowly towards the boy. In the actual fight, he’d retaliated with a flying leap that took Peter by surprise, but he wants the boy to have time to react, and he doesn’t want to hurt or scare him.

“Stay back!” the boy shouts. He extends his wrists, exposing his open palms to Bucky, and he screams, “Thwipp! Thwipp! I’m webbing you! Thwipp!”

Bucky staggers momentarily, pausing to brush an imaginary web off his shoulder. He takes two more steps, and then he dramatically falls to his knees. He tugs in vain at the invisible webs that have trapped his legs. The boy jumps up and down, clapping his hands.

“I got you! I got you! Thwipp! Thwipp!” He runs in circles around Bucky with his palms out, arms windmilling wildly as he completes the task.

“You did catch me,” Bucky says with his head down. “I guess I have to give you back all the hot chocolate now.”

“You’re going to jail for a very long time,” the boy says serenely as the crowd around them claps and cheers. “I win! Dad, I won!”

Louis has reached them now, and he looks down at the boy with an eyebrow raised.

“Since when do we start fights with strangers?” Louis asks. The crowd around them begins to dissipate.

“We were just playing.”

“Did you ask Bucky if he wanted to play with you?”

“No,” the boy says forlornly. “Bucky, would-- do you want to play with me?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, getting back on his feet. “Maybe you can teach me some of your moves.”

“For when you fight bad guys?” the boy asks, his eyes lighting up.

“I don’t fight bad guys anymore,” Bucky says. “I’m retired.”

“What’s ‘retired’?”

“It means I don’t work anymore.”

“Oh. Dad, are you retired?”

“Something like that,” Louis says, hoisting the boy up and sitting him on his hip. He looks at Bucky, and they’re just...standing there in front of each other, where Bucky never thought he would really be again. “Thanks for doing all that. You really didn’t have to.”

“It was fine. It was fun.”

“Well, guess you’ve met Freddie here then.”

“I have. He’s got a lot of personality.”

“That he has,” Louis says with a laugh. “You have absolutely no idea.”

“I--” Bucky is still trying to process that Louis is a father, that this boy is actually Louis’ child. “I didn’t realize you were married.”

“What?” Louis asks, his face twisted up like he’s tasted something sour. “I’m not-- oh, you mean because of Freddie? No, mate. Not married. Never been married.”

“Sorry,” Bucky blurts out. “I shouldn’t have assumed--”

“You know it’s not the 40s anymore, right?” Louis says with a smirk. “It’s 2020. Loads of people have kids without being married.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume anything.”

“I know,” Louis says, and he breaks into an easy smile. “Just giving you shit.”

“Language!” Freddie screeches from his perch on Louis’ hip.

“Okay, okay, language, I know,” Louis grumbles. “I’m sorry, little lad. Don’t tell your mum.”

“Mommy and Dad don’t live together, but they both love me very much,” Freddie tells Bucky.

“That’s right,” Louis says.

“Dad calls Mommy ‘mum’ because he’s from England.”

“Are _you_ from England?” Bucky asks Freddie. He already knows the answer, of course. The boy’s subtle vowel shifts are a clear indication that he’s from California.

“I’m from here,” Freddie says simply. “I have a Spider-Man bedroom. What’s your bedroom?”

“Just normal, I guess,” Bucky says.

“Dad’s bedroom is a _bleepin’ mess_!” Freddie says.

“C’mon, lad, I’m not that bad now.” Louis smiles sheepishly at Bucky. “He repeats everything he hears these days. He’s right though. I’m not the tidiest.”

Bucky doesn’t normally do well with chaos. He needs things organized and precise. He wants his belongings to be dependably exactly where he left them. Order lets him know that no one has been by, no one has rifled through his things or planted any devices. His S.H.I.E.L.D. therapist is fond of saying _you can only change the things within your own sphere of influence_ , and for him, that’s mostly the physical items in his physical home. He keeps them neat and tidy, exactly the way he likes them, and he waits for his insides to match his outsides.

He can’t say any of this to Louis, of course, but before he has to decide if he’s going to say anything else, the barista is calling out Louis’ name as she places two drinks onto the bar.

“That’s us,” Louis says. “Looks like they found some hot chocolate for you after all, Freddie.”

“I saved the day,” Freddie says earnestly.

“It was nice to run into you,” Louis says to Bucky. He’s a little flushed, and he’s chewing on his lip again. “Thanks again for humoring Freddie. Hope we didn’t take up too much of your time.”

“Not at all,” Bucky says. “It was nice to see you. Nice to meet this one.”

“Bye, Bucky!” Freddie says, flapping his hand in a crude imitation of a wave. “You should come over and play sometime! Bye!”

And that’s it. They walk over and collect their drinks, Louis managing to balance a big cup and a very small cup in the same hand. He ducks his head down and says something that makes Freddie laugh, and they wave at Bucky again from a distance as they leave the store. They step out onto the street, and then they’re gone, and the only indication they were ever here is the way Bucky’s heartbeat is so loud he hears it in his ears.

It’s fucking irresponsible, is what it is. It’s frivolous and potentially dangerous to let someone inside his head this completely. He barely even knows Louis, and he’s already dedicated more time to him than prudent. But he can’t make it stop. And there’s already so much shit that he can’t make stop, so many nightmares he can’t quash, and this is his only pleasant obsessive thought, so maybe it’s okay? But obsession is obsession, and it’s just one more thing he can’t control, thrown onto the pile of all the other shit he can’t control, and it’s just...too much. It’s too fucking much, and it’s bad for him, he knows it has to be bad for him to want so badly something that he can’t have, something he can’t even _articulate_.

And yet….

He _wants_.

And it’s like a switch flips in him, and he just decides.

So the barista calls his name, and Bucky picks up his drink and leaves the store and steps out onto the street. And he looks at the crossroads, and there’s only restaurants to the east, and the west is a dead-end, and south doesn’t have good sidewalks for walking with a child, and the closest parking garage is north of here, so he chances it and goes north. And he walks quickly, purposefully, and he clears his mind and focuses on the pursuit. This, he knows how to do, how to single-mindedly fixate on a target. This is hunting, and it’s what he was programmed for.

And a minute later, he sees them up ahead, Freddie’s right hand grasped tight in Louis’ left, the two of them slowly making their way. They’re less than a block away now, and Bucky crosses the street against the light without looking, and it’s just the squeal of the brakes and the abrupt honking of a horn that drag him back into reality, and he looks to his left, sees a truck barrelling his way, and his instincts kick in, _survive, survive_ , and he jumps, lands with one foot on the hood of a car going the opposite direction, pivots, and launches himself again, somersaulting over the roof of a parked car, and then he lands heavily on the sidewalk on all fours. And when he pops his head up and shakes the hair from his eyes, Louis and Freddie are both looking right at him. Freddie is jumping up and down and cheering, but Louis is standing perfectly still, and Bucky knows that he’s ruined this before it could ever be anything.

Bucky stands up, brushes himself off, and walks to the two of them. He doesn’t know how he’s going to explain this. They’re nearly three blocks from the Starbucks.

“Were you following us?” Louis asks when Bucky gets close. His expression is unreadable.

“I--” He didn’t think this through, and now he’s here, and he doesn’t even know why he wanted to be here in the first place. “I didn’t...want it to be done yet.”

“So you were following us,” Louis says, more quietly.

“I guess I was. Yes. I’m really sorry.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess...you were nice to me, and I...liked you. But I’ll go now, and you won’t have to see me again.”

“You...you don’t have to go,” Louis says, furrowing his brow.

“I really do. I just stalked you down the street,” Bucky says, and when he hears it out loud, he realizes for the first time what that means. He’s stronger than Louis, and he’s basically a war criminal, and he tried to follow him home, and that’s...that’s not okay.

“Do you realize I’ve been trying to get your attention for weeks?” Louis asks. “Pretty sure I’m the one who’s been stalking you. I thought you were coming after us to warn me off or beat me up or something. I was just hoping you wouldn’t hit a bloke in front of his kid.”

“I wouldn’t...hit you? What do you mean?”

“I’ve gone back to that Starbucks so many times hoping you would show up,” Louis says, looking at a point somewhere over Bucky’s shoulder. “I asked people on Twitter how to find you. I had my manager call the head of S.H.I.E.L.D. and beg for your phone number.”

That...that _did_ happen. Louis did try to find him first, and Bucky hesitated, and now here they are, and maybe that means--

“Is it okay, then? That I’m here?”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Louis says, and he laughs. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

“Glad you’re here,” Freddie repeats, nodding his head sagely.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Louis asks.

“I already have a drink,” Bucky says, but when he looks at his hand, his coffee isn’t there anymore. He must have lost it at some point when he was crossing the street.

“Not now,” Louis says. “Like, a drink at night, where we dress up a little bit and have a drink and get to know each other a little better.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, and then he doesn’t say anything else, because this is a lot more than he was expecting, and probably more than he is prepared to handle, and he doesn’t understand how he can want and fear something in such exquisitely equal measure.

“Sorry,” Louis says, and he takes a step back. “Sorry, did I…? Did I read this wrong? I didn’t mean--”

“No, no, you’re not wrong,” Bucky says. “I wasn’t expecting that but I...would like that. Yes. I would like to have a drink. With you.”

“Hot chocolate!” Freddie crows.

“You’re not invited, little lad,” Louis says, looking down at him fondly. “Grown-ups only.”

Freddie scowls at Louis, and Louis scowls back, over-exaggerated and silly, and it’s fucking adorable, and Bucky feels like the sidewalk is quicksand. He’s losing his footing, and he’s pretty sure he’s never going to find it again.

“Give me your phone, and I’ll put my number in,” Louis says. Bucky hands over his phone and watches quietly as Louis adds his contact information one-handed. “This little superhero goes back to his mum’s after lunch, and then it’s just me for the next week.”

“And Cliff,” Freddie insists.

“That’s right, lad. Me and Cliff,” Louis says. “So, I don’t know when you’re available, but I’m free tomorrow or--”

“Tomorrow’s good,” Bucky says. The longer he waits, the more time he has to talk himself out of this, make some excuse, and disappear forever. And if he doesn’t let himself have this, if he doesn’t at least try, he’s going to have one more regret to carry around for the rest of his life, and he isn’t sure he’ll be able to stand that.

“Great,” Louis says. “I’ll figure out some plans, and then I’ll text you the details.”

He hands the phone back to Bucky, and their fingers touch. It’s just the smallest whisper of contact, but Louis smiles, and Bucky does, too, and he’s so fucked.

*

A few hours later, Bucky starts getting texts from “Louis T [sunglasses emoji].”

 **Hi it’s louis Tomlinson**  
**From Starbucks**  
**Come over around 8 and I’ll have a car pick us up and take us out for drinks?**  
**No food will be provided ! Drinking only ! Eat before you come !**  
**If that’s okay i mean  
** **If you’re still interested and didn’t change your mind**

_Hi. It’s Bucky Barnes (from Starbucks). I didn’t change my mind._

**Cheeky !  
** **They should have your name at the gate but if they give you any shit when you get here just ring me and I’ll sort it**

Louis texts him the address, and Bucky pulls up his mental map of the city. There are at least three Starbucks closer to Louis than the one they’ve been meeting at.

_Sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow._

**See you x**

*

Louis’ place is only about eight miles from Bucky’s. He’d usually run a distance that short, but that’s not something normal people do, and just this once, he’s determined to at least try to be normal.

Bucky rings the bell, and a cavalcade of gruff barking erupts from inside. Bucky wouldn’t say that there’s anything that he’s properly _afraid_ of, not after all he’s seen and experienced, but...Bucky doesn’t like dogs. He doesn’t like the human look of their eyes, and they have a lack of guile that he finds unnerving.

The door swings open to reveal a smiling Louis, his hand on the collar of a drooling, barking mammoth of a black dog.

“You’re here!” he says. “Come on in. Cliff, shut up, it’s just Bucky.”

Bucky slips through the door, close enough that he gets a big slobbery tongue to the hand and a giant paw to the thigh. He forces a smile onto his face, because he’s happy to see Louis, and he looks nice in his tight jeans and his loose t-shirt and his socked feet.

“Just need to find my shoes,” Louis is saying. “Driver should be here any minute. Cliff, stop licking Bucky’s hand.”

“I don’t mind,” Bucky lies, and he tries to keep smiling.

“You do mind,” Louis says slowly. “You look very uncomfortable now, mate.”

“Not a big fan of dogs.”

“Oi, is a famous tough guy like the Winter Soldier really afraid of a dumb, dopey dog?” Louis teases. Bucky doesn’t say anything, and Louis’ eyes widen slightly. “Shit, you-- Cliff, let’s go. Go to bed.”

Louis briskly walks off, and Cliff lopes after him. A minute later, Bucky hears a door closing and some muffled whining. Louis walks back out, shoes in hand, smile on his face.

“Sorry about that,” Louis says brightly. “You all right then? Want to wash your hands?”

“I am a little slimy,” Bucky says. Louis points out the bathroom ( _the loo_ ), and Bucky’s just drying his hands when he hears the faint honking of their driver.

“Time to go,” Louis says when Bucky rejoins him. “You...you still want to go, yeah?”

“Still want to go,” Bucky says, and he smiles at Louis, standing there with his concerned eyes and his artfully messy hair and his feet jammed into his dress shoes. He smiles at Louis and he means it, and he says, “You look really nice tonight.”

“Cheers,” Louis says, and he ducks his head and flushes slightly. “You look nice, too. Reckon we’re just a pair of nice-looking lads ready to head out on a date.”

“Suppose we are.”

They walk out to the car, and Louis confirms the address with the driver while they both get situated in the backseat.

“Where are we going?” Bucky asks. He’s not used to someone else making the plans, and he thought he wouldn’t like it, expected he’d feel uneasy with the lack of control and the inability to plan ahead of time, but something about it is unexpectedly freeing to him.

“We’re going to a modern sort of speakeasy,” Louis says. “Did you ever used to do that? Not sure when they’re from, to be honest.”

“A bit before my time,” Bucky says.

“So a new experience for both of us,” Louis says. “That’s nice. I haven’t been there, so don’t get cross if it’s rubbish.”

“Where did you hear about it?”

“From, ah.” Louis chuckles self-consciously. “From Freddie’s mum. Briana. I don’t really know what’s a cool thing to do on a date, so I asked her for suggestions.”

“What would you normally do on a date?”

“Haven’t been on a date in ages, to be honest,” Louis says. “I’m happy with some McDonald’s and some Netflix, really. That’s why we couldn’t get food. I can’t stand uptight poncey restaurants, but I can’t be wooing the Winter Soldier with chicken nuggets, can I?”

“You don’t have to keep calling me the Winter Soldier,” Bucky says. “And you don’t need to try to impress me. The last time I went on a date, I took a girl to the pictures, and it was fifty cents for the both of us, and they sent us all away after twenty minutes because the reel caught on fire. Chicken nuggets and Netflix sounds like a nice night, really.”

“Maybe next time,” Louis says with a smile.

When the driver pulls over at the curb, they don’t appear to be anywhere in particular. There’s a convenience store with a buzzing fluorescent sign next to a hardware store that seems to be closed. There’s an unmarked black door in between the two of them, and that’s where Louis heads.

“I really hope this works and we’re not about to get murdered,” Louis mutters under his breath as he rings the buzzer.

“Password?” comes the staticky reply.

“Shit, it’s on their Twitter page, and it changes every night,” Louis says, taking out his phone and jabbing at the screen a few times. “ _Octopus, spatula, buttercup_ ,” he reads off, rolling his eyes at Bucky.

After a moment, the door buzzes, and Louis pulls it open, revealing a narrow dark staircase.

“Here’s to hopefully not getting murdered,” Louis says with a tight smile, stepping inside. Bucky follows after him, and they slowly climb the stairs. At the top of the staircase is a heavy velvet curtain, and they push it aside to step into a small room lit by ornate chandeliers. There’s a bar against the far wall, but Louis heads left, towards one of the scattered tables. There are only a few other people there, and the lights are soft and spidery, and the walls are covered in damask, and the table is so small that Louis’ knees are nestled right up against Bucky’s. It’s ornate and otherworldly, and the atmosphere is refreshingly intimate.

“This place is perfect,” Bucky says.

“It is, isn’t it?” Louis says, looking pleased. “Well done, Briana.”

The waitress comes by, and they both order from the confusing specialty drinks menu: a New Old Fashioned Charm for Bucky, and a Dirty Nickelodeon for Louis, whatever those both are.

“Wouldn’t mind a cheap pint, to be honest,” Louis confesses to Bucky. “But I like how private it is here. And booze is booze, I suppose.”

They wait for their drinks to arrive, and it’s quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Bucky isn’t much good for small talk. He wants to know Louis, desperately wants to know all sorts of things about him, but he doesn’t really entertain idle chatter, and he isn’t sure how to start asking all the things he wants to know without skipping over all the preliminary bullshit that he isn’t any good at.

“So, you’re retired then?” Louis asks after a little while. “How did that come about?”

“You know about S.H.I.E.L.D. reforming a few years back and the New Avengers and all that?” Bucky asks, and Louis nods. “They asked me if I wanted to join. Offered me a five-year contract.”

“And you didn’t want to keep doing it?”

“To be honest with you,” Bucky says, “it was the first time I realized I had the option to stop.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one ever gave me a choice before. I became this, and then I had to be this for seventy years, and it never occurred to me that I could do something different. That I could just walk away.”

He remembers it vividly, the way it felt to walk into Director Coulson’s office, assuming he was about to be given his next assignment and instead being given a choice. There had always been a task, followed by a task, followed by a task. No part of this had ever been voluntary. Bucky never would have chosen this, so when the choice was given, he left.

“Do you miss it?”

“I really don’t,” Bucky says. “I miss...tangential things. I miss some of the friends I made. I miss having that purpose and direction spelled out for me; it’s hard to fill my days sometimes, but I’d rather do nothing than do that ever again. I do miss having a real challenge sometimes. It takes a lot to wear me out, and I miss that sort of bone-deep exhaustion, and the way it felt to sleep afterwards. I haven’t slept like that in years.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve been kind of...glib,” Louis says, biting his lip. “Calling you the Winter Soldier and such. Got a little starstruck if I’m honest, but...I can see beyond that, you know?”

“I know,” Bucky says. “And I think you and your 15 million Instagram followers might understand a little something about what my life is like.”

“That’s 17 million,” Louis corrects with a laugh. “And that’s the thing, innit? We can retire all we like, but we can’t stop being who we are. I stopped making music, but people are still going to see me as Louis Tomlinson, popstar, and I don’t ever get to retire from that and be anonymous again.”

“Pretty hard for me to go incognito,” Bucky agrees, gesturing to his metal arm, which reflects every last photon in the room, illuminated even in the dimmest light. “This is always going to be my life. I still have to go into the S.H.I.E.L.D. office for occasional checkups, and they’ve technically still got me on retainer.”

“What does that mean?”

It means that S.H.I.E.L.D. gives him a monthly stipend so he can pay for his apartment and buy groceries and coffee while still hoarding cash in getaway bags throughout his apartment and at a few points on the outskirts of the city. It means he can still be called in if the threat is great enough. It’s only happened the one time, a few months after he stopped. Most of the team was in China, so they called up him and Peter, who had just started his first semester of college on the east coast, and they met up with Tony and Scott to do some hostage negotiation in Chicago. Tony and Peter have always been close, but it was weird to see how well Tony and Scott worked together, how much they knew about each other’s lives. How they were clearly friends in addition to coworkers. Like he was the only outsider. It felt nice, helping people, but all the rest felt bad. He hopes they don’t call him up again.

“Hopefully, it doesn’t mean much,” Bucky says. “So why did you decide to stop making music?”

“Freddie, mostly,” Louis says. “I always thought I’d have a lot of kids. And a few years ago, I realized it was likely I was only going to ever have the one. And there was some shit I’d missed because I was busy working, and I’d reckoned he was too young to know the difference anyway. But I knew the difference, and I missed out, and I’m not going to have another chance to...not fuck this up.”

“He’s a cool little kid.”

“He’s fucking aces,” Louis says with a smile. “Mischievous as anything. Definitely my kid through and through. And I didn’t want to just be some bloke he talked to over Facetime and only saw in person once a month.” Louis pauses then, tracing the inlaid design of the tabletop with his fingertip. He watches his hand move like it’s fascinating, as he says softly, “Dads are important to little lads.”

Bucky nods, even though Louis isn’t looking at him. Family is important, and family is devastating. Everyone Bucky loved has been gone for a long time, died when he wasn’t even around to mourn them. He woke up one day, and they’d been buried for years. It’s the only life he knows.

“Anyway,” Louis says, snapping back to attention and giving Bucky a tight smile, “I wanted to be there with him, running around, causing some shit. So I made an effort to put him first. Worked out a new custody arrangement with his mum, and now we alternate weeks. Gives her a little breathing space, gives me more time with my boy. It’s good. It’s been fucking hard sometimes, but it’s good.”

The waitress arrives then with their drinks. Louis sips at his, makes a face, and then takes a larger gulp.

“That’s strong, mate. Good though.”

Bucky’s phone starts vibrating against his thigh. It’s the long, sustained vibration accompanied by a frantic staccato of beeps that indicates someone is sending him multiple messages, one after the other. Probably Peter, then.

 _“Starbucks Customer Catches The Winter Soldier Facing Off Against Small Spider-Man - You Won’t Believe What Happens Next!”_ https://youtu.be/mmZqOKVvWrY  
_UMMMMMMMMMMMM_  
_WHO IS THAT ADORABLE SPIDERBABY I LOVE HIM?????????_  
_DID YOU ACTUALLY PLAY WITH A KID WHO EVEN ARE YOU_  
_WAIT WHAT TEH FUCK IS THAT LOUIS TOMLINSON_  
_THAT’S LOUIS TOMLINSON”S KID DUDE WERE YOU GUYS THERE TOGETHER?????_  
_ARE YOU ACTUALLY DATING HIM ARE YOU GONNA FALL IN LOVE???  
_ _BUT SERIOUSLY I GET TO BE YOUR BEST MAN RIGHT???_

“Someone’s popular,” Louis says as Bucky’s phone continues to buzz.

“It’s just Peter being a fucking idiot,” Bucky says. _DELETE MY NUMBER_ he texts back before silencing his phone.

“Peter...Parker?” Louis asks with wide eyes.

“Yeah, I guess someone got video of me and Freddie together, and he thinks it’s funny.”

“I’m trying really hard to play it cool right now,” Louis says, “but please realize that on the inside, I am flipping the fuck out that Spider-Man knows my kid exists.”

“He knows you exist, too,” Bucky says. “He’s dead to me at the moment, but the next time I deign to talk to him, I’ll pass on your regards if you’d like.”

“Cheers,” Louis says. “Fuck, I can’t tell if I’m feeling giddy because of you or because of him or if I’m just drunk.”

“Probably drunk,” Bucky says, but he feels something, too. And Bucky can’t really get drunk; his body metabolizes the alcohol way too fast for him to feel any consequences. The placebo effect works on him a little bit sometimes, but this feels different. There’s a lightness to him. An ease that he doesn’t normally experience. He’s having a really nice time with a really nice man, and it’s gratifying that Louis might be feeling a bit of that, too.

“Maybe drunk,” Louis says softly. The light only catches bits of him, the sheen of his teeth, a highlight in his eye, a dark shadow behind his cheekbone that just accentuates the sharp shape of him. “When you talk to Peter about me, tell him I’m cool, okay? Don’t let him think I’m a loser.”

“I wouldn’t be able to hide it from him,” Bucky says, surprising even himself with how brazen he’s being. “I think you’re great.”

“Well, shit,” Louis says with a small smile. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“No other boys,” Bucky says, like that’s just an easy thing to admit to a beautiful man he can’t stop thinking about, like any part of this is matter-of-fact.

“Not ever?” Louis asks, tilting his head to the side. “I’m not judging, it’s just like...fuck, have you _seen_ you? You’re well fit. Figured you’d been loving and leaving them all over town.”

“I haven’t had the most linear life,” Bucky says. “I mean, it was a different time when I was younger. It was literally two generations ago, you know? And then I had a lot of time stolen from me, and now I’m here.”

“You’re here,” Louis says softly.

“I’ve had a lot of other stuff to focus on. I had a lot of fragments of myself I had to put back together, and I’m still trying to figure out who I am and how I fit in to any of this.”

“I can’t imagine what that’s like,” Louis says. “I’m trying, but I know I don’t get it. Not really.”

“That’s okay,” Bucky says. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. He might be dying. “Shit, I don’t even know what I’m doing here, to be honest. Never thought I’d let myself try something like this.”

“Have you wanted to before? Were there men before that you couldn’t let yourself want?”

“One,” Bucky says, looking down at his hands, counting his knuckles and willing his pulse to settle. “Just the one. A long time ago. It wouldn’t have been okay then, so I tried not to fixate on it.”

“This might be a really stupid thing to say,” Louis says, placing his hand next to Bucky’s on the table, so close that Bucky can feel the heat of him even though they aren’t actually touching. “Maybe some part of this was a gift? Maybe now you can live the life that you couldn’t live then.”

“I don’t--” Bucky begins, ready to protest, ready to recount all the time that’s been stolen from him, and the nightmares he can’t outrun, and the terrible things he’s done that he can never atone for. And he feels that same familiar anger start to bubble up in him, that frustration that comes from having so little control over the life that he’s been forced to live, over this situation he’s woken up to that he can’t change.

“Let me phrase that differently,” Louis says quickly. “Fuck. I don’t know the whole story, mate, but it seems like you went through some awful shit. And I am truly sorry for that.”

“You don’t--”

“When.” Louis looks up at the ceiling and swallows hard, and when he starts talking again, it’s so quiet that Bucky has to lean in to hear him. “When my mum died, I was a fucking mess. Shit, she would have loved you. But for a little while there, I focused on everything I was angry about. Because I was dead furious, you know? She wasn’t going to see Freddie grow up, and I’d spent so much of the last five years on the road instead of being there with her, spending time with _her_. And it took me a long time, and I’m not saying it was easy, and…. You just can’t change things that have already happened. At some point, I just had to say, ‘This is what I have left, and now I go forward.’ And I reconnected with some old friends, and I made some music that I think she would have really loved, and I made sure she got to spend some time with her grandson. And like...if I had the choice, of course I’d give that all back and keep her instead. But it’s _not_ a choice. And once I stopped acting like it was, once I let go of that regret and just tried to make a life with whatever I had left, really just challenged myself to live the absolute best life I could...that’s how I got through it. Everything that happened before now is done and permanent, and everything from here going forward is up to me to make the best of.”

“You can only change the things within your own sphere of influence,” Bucky says, echoing the words he’s heard his S.H.I.E.L.D. therapist say so many times without ever letting himself understand the implication of them. He always thought it meant if you can’t change your thoughts, at least you can change your actions. He never considered that it might mean you can’t change the past, but you can still change the future.

“Cheers,” Louis says, raising his glass and then swallowing down the rest of it with a grimace. “Fuck, this conversation is a little dark for a first date, innit? You have any hobbies? Favorite band? Any pets?”

“I don’t like dogs,” Bucky says.

“I know you don’t like dogs,” Louis says with a smile. “We’ll have to work on that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, stroking his thumb over Bucky’s metal wrist. It’s a light touch, but sometimes that’s almost worse, and Bucky shudders as his mechanoreceptors go a little haywire from the unexpected contact.

“Tell me,” Bucky says, swallowing hard. “Tell me about all the boys you’ve been loving and leaving all over the city.”

“Fuck off,” Louis says with a laugh. “I’ve just the one ex. Well, more than one ex, but just the one who’s a bloke.”

“Who was he?”

“We’d been friends for ages,” Louis says. “One day, we both just got really pissed, and we had a bit of a snog, and I thought it was going to be a joke, and...it wasn’t. It was nice. Shocked the hell out of both of us.”

“Did you love him?” Bucky asks, trying to ignore the little snake of jealousy nipping at him.

“I loved him before, and I loved him the whole way through, and I love him now,” Louis says with a quirk of his lips. Bucky can’t imagine, he can’t even _imagine_ what that must be like, to have loved someone, to have been brave and open like that and for it to have ended anyway, but Louis looks like he’s okay, like it’s just some pleasant faraway memory. “We had a lot of fun. I never properly knew what the fuck I was doing,” Louis says, laughing gently, like it’s okay to just not understand something and admit it to another person, like he’s not ashamed at all. “He’d messed around with a few other blokes before, but never anything too serious. We figured it out together, and it worked for us.”

“Why did you break up?”

“He traveled a lot for work,” Louis said. “He was on the road, and I think he would have liked for me to be able to join him. Just drop everything and travel to Singapore on a whim, shit like that.”

“But you have Freddie.”

“I have Freddie,” Louis says. “And I wouldn’t trade that. Not for him, and not for anyone. It’s funny, because I used to be like that, you know? I was the one traveling and leaving someone behind and hoping they understood. Wanting them to drop it all and just meet me whenever I missed them.” He stirs his drink and takes a long sip. “Turns out I’m not so good at being the one left. And now I know that.”

“Did it end badly?”

“It really didn’t. He’s still one of my best mates, and I see him when he’s in town. And Freddie loves him.” Louis shrugs. “I mean, shit, I love him, too. I don’t regret any of it. I’m not angry. We just don’t fit that way.”

“Do you think someday when he’s ready to settle down, you two will try to make it work?” Bucky asks, trying to make his voice sound even and concerned and not pathetically jealous of someone he’s never even met.

“Not sure he’s ever going to want to settle down,” Louis says thoughtfully. “Can’t really picture it. Anyway, I’m not the type to sit around and wait for someone who doesn’t want to be with me.”

“What if you’re missing out on your soulmate?”

“Don’t believe in that shit,” Louis says, and he doesn’t sound sad or bitter or disappointed at all. “I used to. I really did. Thought it was just the one girl who was going to complete me. But there are loads of people out there. Haven’t had a good one in a while, but I’m not worried.”

Louis’ finger has been gently stroking Bucky’s wrist the whole time, just featherlight touches along the metal plates where his radial styloid process would be if he had bones. Bucky’s been gritting his teeth through the tease of it. But then Louis’ thumb turns slightly, and just the edge of his fingernail grazes Bucky. It catches him off guard, and he exhales in surprise, the quietest groan that he can’t stifle, and his fingers twitch before he can stop them.

“Shit,” Louis says, pulling his hand back. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t even realize I was doing that. Did you--? Does it hurt, or--?”

“It’s just...kind of sensitive,” Bucky says.

“What does that mean? Fuck, I wasn’t even sure you had feeling there. I mean, it’s metal. You can really feel stuff?”

“I can feel a lot,” Bucky says. “Too much, sometimes.”

“Sorry, I won’t touch it.”

“No, you can,” Bucky says. He doesn’t know if he’ll survive Louis touching him again, but he’ll die trying. “It feels good, it’s just...a lot.”

“What’s the point of that?” Louis says. “What’s the point of them giving you an arm that’s so jumpy?”

“I like it that way,” Bucky says. “Just a little oversensitive so that it...so that I can’t forget it’s there.”

“Why?”

“Reminds me to be careful with it,” Bucky says softly. “Reminds me not to hurt anyone.”

“You feel this?” Louis asks quietly, dragging his fingertip down the side of Bucky’s index finger. He feels each discrete point of contact like a little bit of lightning, like the path of Louis’ finger against Bucky’s is glowing in the dark.

“Yeah,” he chokes out.

“You’re sure it doesn’t hurt?”

“Feels nice,” Bucky whispers. “Shit.”

“You touch me now,” Louis says, closing his eyes and flipping his hand on the table so his palm is face-up.

Bucky touches his finger to where Louis’ thumb meets his palm, just a soft graze of metal on skin. He arcs a sloping path along the webspace between Louis’ thumb and index finger, then hesitantly makes his way up until they’re fingertip to fingertip. It’s a gentle, gentle touch, but Bucky still feels the slide of the oil and the sweat from Louis’ skin, still feels the slightest friction of Louis’ fingerprint mapping itself against Bucky.

“Shit,” Louis whispers, opening his eyes. “It doesn’t feel quite like skin, but it’s still so soft.”

“It can be soft,” Bucky says. “It was only built to be strong, but I’ve learned how to make it be a lot of different things.

“Shit,” Louis says again with a teasing smile. “Strong _and_ gentle? Where have you been all my life?”

“Frozen in suspended animation for most of it, probably.”

Louis laughs, sharp and delighted, and his cheeks flush. He blinks slowly and looks up at Bucky from under his eyelashes. In this moment, it feels like Bucky could tell Louis anything and it would be okay. And even weirder, he feels like he wants that. And if he could just--

Somewhere over his right shoulder, maybe twenty feet back, there’s a cough, then a rustle of clothing, and then the distinctive sound of a gun barrel clinking against a belt buckle, and Bucky reacts automatically, like he always does, up on his feet and turning around, he only saw the one exit but Louis’ behind him, he’ll be able to run away and get to safety as long as that front door doesn’t lock, he’s got his metal arm in front of him like a shield, and--

There’s no one there. No one at all.

He takes a deep breath, and then another one. His heartbeat is ringing in his ears, and he can feel the way his increased cortisol levels are changing the pH of his blood, and his lungs are working at maximal capacity, and there’s absolutely _nothing_ there, nothing at all.

He sits down and looks into Louis’ worried eyes.

“Are you okay?” Louis asks cautiously.

“Thought I heard something,” Bucky murmurs. “It happens sometimes. Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“It’s okay,” Louis says, but Bucky notices that he’s keeping his hands on his own side of the table now. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really anything to talk about,” Bucky says. “Thought I heard something, but I didn’t.”

“Okay. Do you...do you think we should go?”

And that’s it. He let his guard down too much and thought he could do this, but he can’t. He obviously can’t, and now that Louis sees what he’s really like, he wants to leave. And so of course Bucky needs to let him go.

“We can go,” Bucky says, and Louis nods.

“I’ll call for the car.”

*

The first half of the ride back is blanketed in awkward silence. Louis gives up on trying to hold a conversation with Bucky and just turns to his phone. The screen illuminates his downturned face in a way that turns his eyelashes into inky black streaks, shadows painting themselves down his cheeks. He really is beautiful. It was a nice fantasy while it lasted.

“Do you even like me?” Louis says eventually, flicking his eyes up to meet Bucky’s.

“What?”

“Because it seemed like you did at first,” Louis says, picking at his sleeve. “But now you’re being really distant, and I can’t figure it out.”

“Of course I like you,” Bucky says lowly. “I...what?”

“An hour ago, I thought you were going to take me home and kiss me. Maybe stay over. Now, I feel like you’d flinch if I even tried to touch you.”

“I...I’m not like other people,” Bucky says dumbly. He’d never planned to kiss Louis. That never felt like something that was on offer.

“I know.” Louis reaches over and places his hand gently on Bucky’s knee. Bucky swallows hard but doesn’t flinch or pull away. He lets Louis’ hand sit warm and solid against his jeans.

“I’m not good at this,” Bucky says. “I want to be, but I’m not.”

“Not good at what?”

“Opening up. Being vulnerable. Not emotionally, not physically.” Bucky keeps looking at Louis’ hand, the shape it makes against his leg. “I don’t know if I know how to do this.”

“Listen,” Louis says. “When I asked you out, I just thought you were really fit and good with my kid. But I had a good time tonight, and I like you. I know we’re still only getting to know each other, and I don’t want to push you into something you’re not ready for. But if you like me, we can go at your pace. We can take this slow. But only if you like me. Only if this is something you want to try.”

“I like you,” Bucky says. “How could I not like you? Jesus.”

“That’s a good start,” Louis says with a small smile.

“I don’t know what I’m going to need,” Bucky says. “I don’t know how slow I need to take things, but I don’t know if I can make you wait that long. I don’t know if I can ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking me anything,” Louis says. “I offered. Look, I’m not interested in some fling. I wasn’t built for that sort of nonsense. I have a kid, and I’m not going to waste my time on someone who’s not serious. And I don’t mind waiting for someone good.” He moves his thumb in small, cautious circles over Bucky’s leg, and Bucky lets him. “I think you’re someone I could be serious about. I think you’d be someone good for me. And I’d stick around and wait for you, however long that took. But you’ve got to promise me that you like me and you want to try.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says softly.

“What?”

“Yeah, I want to try.”

“Really?” Louis says, and he smiles, and the streetlights slip through the windows and catch the sharp edges of his teeth.

Bucky places his natural hand on top of Louis’, feels skin on skin, blood and bone and nerves and all of it, feels a pulsing that starts from his knee and reverberates everywhere. He feels it in his teeth and his eyeballs and between his toes. It doesn’t follow a nervous distribution. It doesn’t make any biological sense. But he feels it absolutely everywhere.

“I want to try.”

“Brilliant,” Louis says. “And we’ll go slow. As slow as you want. Listen, you don’t even have to see me again until you’re ready, okay? You’re in charge of our next date. Whenever you want to, whenever you’re ready, you can ask me out, and we’ll go wherever you want to go and do whatever you want to do this time.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. He hasn’t asked anyone out in decades. He doesn’t know if he remembers how to.

“When you’re ready, you ask me out,” Louis says softly. “And no matter what it is, I’m gonna say yes. I’m without the little lad until Friday afternoon, and then we just alternate weeks. Ask me, and I’ll say yes.”

They ride the last five minutes in silence. Bucky’s head is churning, as one flood of ideas follows another. It’s chaos, the way he dreams about something with one thought and dashes his own hopes with the next. He wants this. It’ll never work out. He’s going to try. It will end in disaster. But maybe he can have just a scrap of something beautiful along the way.

*

Right before Bucky goes to sleep that night, before he can lose his nerve, he texts Louis.

_Do you want to go to Runyon Canyon with me on Wednesday?_

He barely even knows what it is, just knows Jemma has been nagging him to go there for ages. It’s supposed to be beautiful, and he doesn’t know anywhere else to go in LA. Louis said he’d say yes no matter what, but Bucky doesn’t know how to _do_ this. He puts his phone facedown in a drawer in the kitchen and goes to bed.

When he wakes up the next morning, he has a text from Louis, sent three minutes after Bucky’s message was delivered.

It says, simply: _Yes :)_

*

Bucky doesn’t drive much, but he does have a car, and this is a date, so he picks Louis up at 5:30 on Wednesday evening.

“Hiya,” Louis says, opening the passenger door and settling in. He’s wearing a bright yellow sweatsuit that’s probably too warm for the late-August heat, and his running shoes are spotless white. It’s not the most practical outfit for a hike.

“Hi,” Bucky says, and he can’t help but smile. He hands Louis a slightly crumpled paper bag that was propped against the gear shift. “For you.”

“What’s this?” Louis asks with a pleased smile.

“Dinner. You can eat on the way. Get your strength up.”

“Cheers,” Louis says, and then he laughs when he gets the bag open. “Did you really bring me chicken nuggets?”

“I...I thought that’s what you liked,” Bucky says. He realizes now that this was maybe not the best choice. He could’ve gotten Louis something fancy, something that demonstrates how he feels, how he thinks Louis deserves to be treated. Or better yet, he could’ve asked Louis what he actually wanted instead of being presumptuous.

“This is perfect, mate,” Louis says, kicking off his shoes and wiggling his socked toes. “Chicken nuggets and a handsome bloke driving me to look at a canyon or summat. Absolutely perfect.”

“We’re not just going to look at the canyon,” Bucky says. “I think we’re supposed to climb it.”

“Oh,” Louis says, opening up his carton of nuggets. “Then you’re right. I’d best get me strength up.”

“We can do something else,” Bucky says. “If you don’t want to. We can go somewhere else, find something you’d like better.”

“None of that,” Louis says, quirking an eyebrow. “I was promised a canyon, and I’m going to climb a bloody canyon.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. “It’s supposed to be beautiful.”

“Even better,” Louis says with his mouth full of chicken. “I’d climb an ugly canyon if you asked me to, but I do prefer a beautiful one.”

“Do you drive?” Bucky asks. “Never seen you drive.”

“I do,” Louis says. “Learned on the other side of the road, so it took some getting used to. I waited ages to get my license here, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“They make you surrender the old one before they give you the new one,” Louis says, sucking on the pad of his thumb. “Just a big step for me, giving up that last piece of home.”

“I have sixteen different driver’s licenses with sixteen different identities,” Bucky confesses, and Louis throws his head back laughing.

“Mate, if I ever need to flee the country, I’m counting on you to save my arse,” Louis says when he catches his breath. “What are your fake names, then? Ducky Darnes?”

“Can’t tell you,” Bucky says with a smile. “It’s classified.”

“Right, right,” Louis says, shaking his head. “Well, we don’t all get to have duplicate identification documents. I just have the one. Wicked picture, looks like a mugshot, though I’m told that’s fairly typical. Needed a car when I started having Freddie more. I still call for a driver more than I probably should, but I need to make sure I can get somewhere fast if there’s an emergency or what have you.”

“I don’t drive much either.”

“Don’t you? Wouldn’t take you for someone who used a driver.”

“I mostly, ah. Run.”

“What do you mean, run?”

“Like, I…” Bucky gestures meaninglessly in the air. “I run. I run places. I have good shoes, and I don’t tire easily.”

“This is going to sound crazy, but I’m exactly the same.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not,” Louis says incredulously. “Literally no one else does that. You don’t get tired?”

“Hardly ever.”

“Jesus, no wonder you’re so fit.” Louis slouches in his seat and puts his feet up on the dash. “You might have to carry me up this canyon. I’m in awful shape.”

“You look pretty good to me,” Bucky says softly, stealing a glance over at Louis.

“Cheers,” Louis says, giving Bucky’s right elbow a quick squeeze. “Now, what kind of music selection do we have in this car?”

“Whatever’s on the radio or your phone, I guess,” Bucky says. His elbow tingles pleasantly where Louis is still touching him. “I don’t listen to much music.”

“You hear about people who don’t listen to music,” Louis muses. “Always thought it was a myth. You know, music today is much better than whatever rubbish they listened to back in your day. Might want to have another go at it.”

“I’ve _heard_ music,” Bucky says. “Just prefer to concentrate on what I’m doing.”

“Even when you’re running?”

“Yes.”

“So you go out for a run, and you don’t listen to music so that you can pay better attention to how bloody boring running is?”

“I have a lot of thoughts,” Bucky says.

“I do, too, mate. Awful things. That’s what the music’s for. Give you something else to focus on.”

“I don’t like being distracted,” Bucky says. “It makes me feel too….”

“Vulnerable?” Louis offers softly.

“Yes.”

“Well, I understand that.” Louis says. “I mean, I don’t, not really.”

“Me neither,” Bucky says. “Honestly. Me fuckin’ neither.”

“Do whatever makes you feel comfortable while you’re running,” Louis says. “But maybe we could listen to music when we’re together. Just in the background sometimes. Music’s important to me, and I think you’d like it, and I’d like to share that with you.”

“Okay,” Bucky whispers.

“Besides,” Louis says, and he hesitates for a moment, sliding his hand from Bucky’s elbow up to his shoulder. “You’re safe with me. You know that, yeah? No one can get to you without going through me first, and I know I don’t look like much of a fighting machine, but I’m dead annoying when I want to be. They’d give up ages before I would.”

It’s ridiculous to think about. Anyone coming after Bucky would be a trained assassin at the very least, possibly someone with powers, someone intimidating and terrifying who would kill Louis in an instant without thinking twice. But Bucky steals a glance to his right, and Louis is looking directly at him, serious and unwavering. And Louis would never be able to protect Bucky if it came down to it in a fight, but in this moment, Louis believes that he could, and Bucky doesn’t believe he could truly do it, but he believes that he would want to, that he might actually die trying, and that’s just...a lot to unpack. And certainly more than he deserves.

“Find some music for us,” Bucky says, looking back at the road. “Can’t promise I’ll like it, but I’ll give it a chance.”

“Brilliant,” Louis says.

Louis pulls his hand away from Bucky’s shoulder, and he feels the loss somehow even more than he felt the touch. Louis starts fucking around with the car’s audio controls while hitting buttons on his phone, and a minute later, there’s a blast of guitars coming through the speakers. He quickly lowers the volume to a more tolerable level.

“This is Green Day,” Louis explains. “They’re one of our favorite bands.”

“Are they?” Bucky asks with a smile. “What’s my favorite song?”

“Don’t get smart with me,” Louis says. He fiddles with his phone for a bit, and one song ends and the next begins, and it’s halfway done before Louis talks again. “You...you’ve never heard any of my music, have you?”

“I haven’t,” Bucky says, and it seems like such a ridiculous, irresponsible oversight. Of course he should have listened to his music. “I’m sorry. I’d really like to hear it.”

“Not now,” Louis says. “Maybe later, when you’re on your own.”

“You don’t want to listen with me?”

“I’d rather not,” Louis says. “It’s uncomfortable. You don’t have to like it, mate, but I’d rather not witness that first hand. My music’s very personal to me.”

“I’ll definitely listen,” Bucky says. “I want to.”

“Cheers,” Louis says. “Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two about me from it. Some of it’s pretty revealing.”

“I look forward to that,” Bucky says. “But honestly, it already feels like I know you pretty well. Is that stupid?”

“That’s not stupid at all,” Louis says softly. “Here, listen to this bridge. It’s sick, isn’t it?”

Bucky glances at him, but Louis’ looking out the window as the scenery rushes by. Bucky reaches over and squeezes Louis’ hand. Louis squeezes back without looking, but Bucky can see the hint of a smile cross his profile. Bucky puts his hand back on the gearshift, and Louis follows. The weight of Louis’ hand on Bucky’s anchors him to this moment, makes it real and vivid and undeniable, and they drive the rest of the way quietly, not speaking, just listening to the music and existing together in the indelible present.

*

“You have a really slow heartbeat,” Louis says. He’s currently perched on Bucky’s back, arms and legs looped securely around Bucky’s torso, his cheek pressed to the exposed skin on the back of Bucky’s neck. Every word that leaves Louis’ mouth feels molten against Bucky’s back. He doesn’t think his heart has ever beat faster in his entire life.

“They made my heart really efficient,” Bucky says. “It doesn’t have to beat as often because when it does, it’s really powerful.”

“That’s a little bit romantic, Bucky Barnes,” Louis says. He presses his right palm flush to Bucky’s chest, his thumb idly stroking where his pec meets his clavicle. “Shit, you’re right. That’s really strong.”

“That’s me.”

“That’s you,” Louis says, and Bucky can’t see it, but he almost hears the smile in Louis’ voice.

They hadn’t hiked too far before it became apparent that Louis wasn’t up for the task, though he wasn’t keen to admit it. There’s a fierce sort of dignity to Louis that Bucky finds so charming. It took a bit of convincing (to Louis, to himself) before they agreed that Bucky would carry Louis the rest of the way to the peak on his back. They should get there in plenty of time to watch the sunset.

“This place really is gorgeous,” Louis says. “Should come back sometime, bring Freddie and Cliff. Can’t believe I’ve never been here before.”

“Can’t believe it either,” Bucky says without thinking. “Can’t even hike a mile without getting tired, why wouldn’t you have explored all the parks in Los Angeles?”

“Oh, shit,” Louis says, and then his arms tighten around Bucky as he dissolves into helpless giggles. “Fuck, you just dragged me.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says quickly. “I don’t know why I said that. It was--”

“No, it’s sick,” Louis says, still laughing. “You don’t make a lot of jokes, but when you do, they’re good.”

“They are?”

“You’re funny,” Louis says, his voice muffled against Bucky’s shirt. “I like when you’re funny.”

“No one has ever called me funny before.”

“Maybe they don’t have a very sophisticated sense of humor,” Louis says.

_Maybe I wasn’t funny until I met you._

“Shouldn’t be too much farther,” Bucky says.

“Lead on, soldier,” Louis says softly.

For the next fifteen minutes, they climb silently, steadily up the peak. Bucky loves the quiet of it, loves the way he can hear birds calling to one another, the twigs snapping beneath his boots, the quiet huff of breath from Louis when he sees something he finds particularly beautiful. He feels the dull throb of Louis’ heart against his back, feels the weight of his body and his arms and his heavy head, and it’s just nice. It’s nice to be with him and to be experiencing this together, and it’s nice to be quiet with someone. He likes talking to Louis, but he likes these quiet parts, too.

“Here we are,” Bucky says when they reach the top. Louis wordlessly slides down from his back, and they both look out over the expanse of the city. Far away things are supposed to look tiny, and the buildings themselves are slight, but from this vantage point, the footprint of Los Angeles is enormous. Boundless. Like you could explore it for a thousand years and never uncover all of its secrets. Like the odds of running into a specific person even once is unlikely; like running into him twice should be statistically impossible.

“Wow,” Louis finally says. “Can you believe this was here all along? I’ve been here for years, and I had no idea.”

“Let’s sit down, and I can show you what’s inside that backpack I made you carry,” Bucky says, and his metal hand slips into Louis’ before he even realizes it’s happening, like that trek up the hill with their bodies pressed together, their hearts beating out an asynchronous syncopation, has changed their personal boundaries and joined them in an unexpected way.

“Show me,” Louis says, squeezing Bucky’s hand. It’s overwhelming, but Bucky doesn’t let go.

They walk over to a bench overlooking the view, hands swinging lightly between them. They sit down, and Bucky opens the bag and then the cooler inside it, handing a beer to Louis and keeping one for himself.

“Oh, wicked,” Louis says. “It’s still cold.” He pops the tab and tilts his head back to take a gulp, and Bucky watches his throat work, sees the play of his superficial neck muscles and his larynx and the delicate architecture of his mandible. He’s spellbinding.

“We made good time,” Bucky says.

“ _You_ made good time,” Louis corrects, letting his head fall onto Bucky’s shoulder.

“We’re a little early for sunset, though.”

“That’s okay,” Louis says, his fingertips ghosting over Bucky’s forearm. “I don’t mind waiting here with you.”

They sit quietly, watching the sun meander across the sky. Louis pulls Bucky’s hand into his lap at some point, and his fingers are cold and just a little damp from the beer can. His thumb brushes against Bucky’s thumb, and his fingertips swoop from knuckle to knuckle, a repetitive path that Bucky sinks into. He’s never let anyone touch him for so long. It’s hypnotic, and Bucky loses himself in the feel of it, the intimacy of letting someone know the ugliest part of him. It feels good. It feels too good.

“Are you okay?” Louis asks, halting his movements, and Bucky is jerked back to the presence, and he feels how fast his heart is beating, and he becomes aware of the way his chest is sucking in air. He’s almost dizzy from it, and he blinks a few times.

“Sorry, it’s just a lot,” Bucky says.

“So like, when you say your arm is sensitive,” Louis says, stroking Bucky’s inner wrist with just the edge of his index finger, “you mean... _sensitive_?”

“That’s what I said,” Bucky says, panting lightly, _what the fuck, what the fuck_.

“Does it feel nice when I touch you like this?” Louis asks, moving his thumb in small circles over Bucky’s palm, varying the speed and pressure enough to keep Bucky guessing, and it feels fucking unreal.

“It’s really nice,” Bucky whispers, and he lets his head fall to the side, resting lightly on top of Louis’.

“What about this?” Louis asks, dragging his blunt fingernail along the crease of Bucky’s inner elbow.

Bucky nods, swallowing hard, not even trusting himself to speak.

“And this?” Louis flattens his palm to Bucky’s wrist, and slowly, slowly drags his entire hand up Bucky’s entire arm, a solid pressure along his forearm, looping around his elbow, over his upper arm and all the way to his shoulder, and nothing has ever felt like that, the friction and the heat and the compression and the slow, teasing pace of it painting a fucking rainbow behind Bucky’s eyelids. This arm’s only ever been good for hurting people. He never knew it could be good for...this.

“Shit,” Bucky says, shuddering. “Louis, I--”

“Feels good, yeah?” Louis murmurs, his lips right against Bucky’s ear now.

“Louis,” Bucky says helplessly. He doesn’t even understand what’s happening to him right now.

“It’s okay,” Louis says. He pulls one of his hands away, brings it to Bucky’s head instead, gently playing with the ends of his hair. “Is it too much? Want me to stop now?”

“I think,” Bucky says, and he shakes his head. “Louis.”

“It’s okay,” Louis says again, and he takes his other hand off of Bucky’s arm. He carefully extricates himself from how Bucky is leaning against him and stands up. Bucky just watches him, still trying to catch his breath, as Louis walks to his other side and sits down again. He gives Bucky’s natural hand a squeeze, and Bucky slowly breathes and blinks and tries to center himself around something.

“That...has never happened to me before.”

“Was it okay?” Louis asks softly. “I didn’t know what was going to happen. I didn’t want to do something you didn’t want to do.”

“It was...nice. Fuck.”

“It looked like it was nice,” Louis says. “That was so intense. Shit. Is it, like...like if I kept doing that, would you have come, or…?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says honestly. “I really don’t know. Maybe eventually? It takes a lot for me to lose control. It would probably take a really, really long time. But maybe eventually.”

“Nothing we need to figure out tonight,” Louis says. He plays with Bucky’s other hand, folding his fingers down, thumbing at his knuckles and tendons. “Is this okay? Is this better?”

“This is good,” Bucky says.

“What...what did they do to you?” Louis asks after a while. “You have the arm, but you’re also so strong without it. Like, you carried me all the way up this bloody mountain and didn’t even sweat. And then your heart is super strong, and you never get tired, and I don’t think I really understand it.”

“I don’t really understand it either,” Bucky admits. “We don’t entirely know. And they might never figure it out, and they’ve told me I might just have to live with not knowing.”

“Is that scary?” Louis asks. “Not knowing what your body is capable of, or why it is the way it is?”

“Sometimes,” Bucky says. “I don’t know. I think there are lots of things our bodies can do that we don’t necessarily know about.”

“Like what?” Louis asks.

Bucky turns to him then, appraises his jawbone, approximates where his submandibular fossa would be. He brings his hand to Louis’ face slowly, hooks his thumb under Louis’ jaw, and softly massages the gland there.

“Feel that?” Bucky asks.

“What are you doing?” Louis asks.

“Are you salivating?”

“Yeah,” Louis says shakily. “What is that?”

“Submandibular gland,” Bucky says. “I know it’s not the same thing, but your body does stuff you can’t explain either.”

“How do you know so many things?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky pulls his hand away, watches Louis swallow with wide eyes. “I woke up one day and found out someone turned me into a weapon, and I’ve been trying to piece together the last seventy years ever since.”

“I’m sorry they did this to you.”

“It’s more than I bargained for when I enlisted in the army, I can tell you that much,” Bucky says with a wry smile. “But I’m getting used to it. Can’t change the past, right? I just...I try to stay in control. So even if there’s a surprise, I won’t hurt anyone.”

“I can’t imagine you hurting anyone,” Louis says.

“I have though,” Bucky says. “You know that, right? You know that I’ve killed literally hundreds of people?”

“I know you were brainwashed for a long time and did things you never would have chosen to do otherwise,” Louis says. “And I know the man sitting next to me right now is incapable of harming anyone.”

“I’m not incapable,” Bucky says. He carries around the proof every day that he’s all too capable, that he was built to damage and destroy.

“You are, though,” Louis says. “You’re controlled, and you’re disciplined, and you’re a good, good man. And I think you’d be incapable of hurting anyone. You never would let yourself do that now. That’s what I think.”

“I wish it was that easy,” Bucky says. The sky is flushed, pinks and peaches creeping across the horizon. “I wish I could just be who I am now, without ever having been him.”

“Can’t change that,” Louis says. “Only matters who you are now. And I like who you are.”

“I like you, too,” Bucky says quietly. “You know I like you a lot, right?”

“I know,” Louis says. “And I know you’re trying. And I know you’re worried that you’re not trying hard enough, but you are. You’re doing great, Bucky.”

“If they didn’t do this to me,” Bucky says, “I never would have met you.”

“For whatever it’s worth, I’m glad you met me,” Louis says simply, and he squeezes Bucky’s hand lightly and steadily as they both watch the sun set.

*

Over the next few weeks, it almost starts to feel...normal. They go to a sports bar that’s open early to show the Premier League games, and Louis tries to teach Bucky about football, but all he really learns is to stop calling it _soccer_ when Louis can hear. Bucky goes over to Louis’, and they order pizza and watch Netflix, Cliff banished to the other side of the house, Louis bundled up under a stack of cozy blankets, his head resting on Bucky’s shoulder, his hair staticky and fluffy from rubbing against the fleece. They drive out with Cliff to a secluded beach that Louis knows, and they let him off leash as they walk along the tideline hand in hand, watching Cliff splash in the waves. They go to an exhibition of World War II photography at the Getty, and Bucky tells Louis stories about the bits that he recognizes and makes up blatant lies about the bits that he doesn’t, and Louis takes a while to catch on, but when he does, he laughs so loud and so long that a guard asks them to move along.

And when they aren’t physically spending time together, they’re texting or calling. Louis has taken to sending Bucky selfies before bed or early in the morning (according to Louis’ morning, which is considerably closer to Bucky’s afternoon). And now Bucky has a collection of pictures where Louis looks soft and rumpled and sleepy, often with the blankets pulled up to his chin but with an occasional flash of shoulder or clavicle. _Distinctive tattoos_ , Bucky thinks automatically, but he fights against that instinct, fights against his usual attempts to catalog everyone he encounters. And instead, he just looks at Louis and thinks, _wow, wow, wow_.

One night, when Bucky hasn’t seen Louis in six days because it’s his week to have Freddie, he decides to head out for a run. He laces up his shoes and slips the loose cord of his earbuds into his pocket like he always does, and then he pauses. He looks through his phone, finds the music app that Louis downloaded for him that he hasn’t actually used yet, and he loads Green Day’s five most popular albums into a playlist. And he keeps the volume low, but for the first time, he listens to music while he runs. He has to stop and turn around seven different times because he’s convinced someone is following him. No one’s ever there, but the panicked, uneasy feeling never quite subsides. His heart rate is up much higher than usual, caught in perpetual fight-or-flight indecision, and after four hours of running, he actually starts to feel worn out. He goes home, showers, falls into bed, and sleeps better than he has in years.

In the morning, he texts Louis.

_Coming Clean_

**????**

_That’s my favorite Green Day song._

**:)**

*****

Bucky’s phone rings one night, just a little before midnight. It’s Louis.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, answering on the first ring.

“I’m okay,” Louis says quietly. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” Bucky says. “I don’t sleep much. What’s wrong?”

“Can I ask you for a really dumb, really big favor?”

“Probably.”

“I, um.” Louis laughs self-consciously. “I watched, like, a dozen old episodes of _Black Mirror_ back to back, and now I’m fucking freaked out, and every time I hear a noise in my place, I’m afraid it’s some fucking robot mercenary dog coming to murder me.”

“Why would a robot dog want to murder you?”

“They can’t help it,” Louis says. “That’s what they’re programmed for.”

“I’ve never heard of mercenary robot dogs,” Bucky says. “Are they new?”

“No, they’re...fictional,” Louis says. “They don’t fucking exist, and I know they don’t exist, but I’m scared of them anyway, and every time I close my eyes, I imagine them sneaking into my house and fucking stalking me from room to room and killing me. And I know that’s daft, but I can’t make it stop. Please don’t make fun of me.”

“I would never make fun of you,” Bucky says. “It’s not...it’s not our fault if sometimes our brains tell us things that we can’t...make them not tell us.”

“Thank you,” Louis says softly. “I felt so dumb even calling you.”

“You’re not dumb,” Bucky says firmly. “What would you like me to do?”

“Could you come over?” Louis asks in a very small voice.

“Of course. I’m leaving here now.”

Twenty minutes later, Louis opens the door for Bucky.

“Thanks for doing this,” he says with a small smile. He looks exhausted.

“Of course,” Bucky says, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. Louis immediately slumps into him, pushing up onto his toes to loop his arms around Bucky’s neck.

“I’m really glad to see you,” Louis mumbles into Bucky’s shoulder.

“Everything’s okay,” Bucky says. His arms wrap around Louis like an unfamiliar habit he’s still trying to form, and he strokes at Louis’ warm back through his thin T-shirt. “I won’t let anything get you.”

“Thank you,” Louis says. He finally lets go of Bucky, taking a step back. His face is flushed, but he looks pleased. “Is that the hoodie I got you?”

Bucky nods, looking down at the oversized red sweatshirt he’d put on earlier that evening.

“It’s comfortable, but I think it’s a little big on me.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to fit,” Louis says happily, tucking his hand into Bucky’s and leading him deeper into the house. “It looks nice on you.”

“Where’s Cliff hiding?” Bucky asks warily. He matches his stride length to Louis’, using the muffled sounds of his socked footsteps as a quiet metronome.

“He’s at Briana’s,” Louis says. “Freddie’s been very clingy with him lately, so we’re letting Cliff travel back and forth with him sometimes.”

“But you love having that dog around.”

“Yeah, well...part of being a dad, innit?” Louis says with a shrug. “It’s not always about what I want. It’s about what’s best for him.”

“You’re a good man,” Bucky says as they step into Louis’ bedroom.

“Wouldn’t go that far,” Louis says, squeezing Bucky’s hand and then letting it go. “It’s just a dog.”

Bucky toes out of his shoes and looks around. He hasn’t been in Louis’ bedroom before. It’s massive, with a huge bed and a gigantic TV that takes up almost an entire wall and bookcases with not much on them and crumpled-up clothing covering sixty percent of the floor and three mugs on the bedside table.

Meanwhile, Louis’ pulling his T-shirt off over his head, and he’s got it about halfway up his torso when he stops and asks, “Is this okay? I sleep a bit hot.”

“Whatever you need,” Bucky says, trying not to stare. By the time he finishes pulling off his own sweatshirt and folding it neatly, Louis is already crawling into bed, down to just his boxers.

“Thanks again for coming over,” Louis says.

“I told you, it’s not a problem,” Bucky says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I really don’t sleep much. Can just as easily not sleep here.”

Louis scoots to the far end of the bed and chews on his lip as Bucky slips beneath the covers. The instant Bucky is lying down, Louis curls up into him, his head a solid pressure against Bucky’s chest.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, tentatively resting his hand on the seam that joins Bucky’s metal arm to his body.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, swallowing hard. Louis’ body is warm and small against his. Bucky can smell his skin. He hasn’t been this close to anyone in a long, long time, and it’s almost too much to bear. “Tell me about this show that’s got you so upset.”

“It’s a show about bad things that happen when technology gets too advanced, and humanity is too utterly fucked up to know what to do with it. We make stuff that we can’t control, and it almost always ends really badly.”

“What kind of bad technology stuff?” Bucky murmurs into Louis’ hair. “Stuff like me?”

“ _No_ ,” Louis says, shaking his head. “Fuck, no.” He props his chin on Bucky’s chest and looks up at him. “You’re the best stuff, Bucky. The very best stuff.”

He’s looking very insistently into Bucky’s eyes, and it’s making his heart feel swoopy and skittery. He knows he should say something, but he feels paralyzed under the weight of Louis’ gaze. No one’s ever looked at him like this before. He’s still racking his brain for something to say when Louis’ face scrunches up and he lets out a huge yawn.

“Fuck, that’s a mood-killer,” Louis says sheepishly.

“Get some sleep,” Bucky tells him with a smile. “I’ll watch over you.”

“My hero,” Louis says. He reaches over to turn off the lamp, and then he kisses Bucky’s chest, right over his heart, and Bucky can feel the warmth of his lips bleeding through his T-shirt. “G’night, Bucky.”

“Goodnight, Louis.”

In the dark, Bucky finally feels comfortable enough to wrap his arms around Louis, who sighs happily and burrows closer into Bucky’s chest. Bucky counts his breaths, slow and deep and even, and soon, Louis is asleep.

Bucky doesn’t sleep, though. He knows that the robot dogs aren’t real and aren’t coming for them, and yet, he promised he would watch over Louis and keep him safe, and he feels compelled to do that. He can’t imagine going to sleep and missing even a second of this. Louis’ chest presses into Bucky’s body every time he inhales, and his breath puffs out against Bucky’s shoulder every time he exhales, and each individual cycle feels like a revelation. His arms are full of this man who trusts him and needs him, and Bucky has never felt so _necessary_ before. It’s a privilege, keeping watch over this person who he cares about so deeply. It’s the most intimate thing that’s ever happened to him. Louis breathes out, and then he breathes back in again, every single time; Bucky makes sure of it.

All too soon, the sun begins to rise in Bucky’s peripheral vision, but he can’t look away from Louis’ face, from the way the sunlight gradually licks its way across his cheekbones. Louis awakens slowly, his feet rubbing together under the blankets, his breath huffing out erratically, his closed eyes twitching. Bucky sees and remembers every moment of this, the delicate choreography of Louis waking up.

Eventually, Louis stretches his shoulders and yawns, blinking his eyes slowly. It seems to take him a moment to focus on Bucky’s face, to realize where he is and who he’s with. But as soon as he does, he smiles sweetly.

“You’re here,” he whispers. “Hi.”

“Good morning,” Bucky says. He feels himself smiling back at Louis, and it feels goofy and embarrassing and entirely beyond his ability to control.

“I can’t remember the last time I slept so well,” Louis says. He closes his fingers around Bucky’s wrist and pulls, draping Bucky’s arm more securely around himself. “Did you sleep okay?”

“I told you. I don’t really sleep much.”

“Did you sleep at all?” Louis asks, brow furrowed adorably.

“I...I watched, and I made sure you were okay.”

“All night?”

“I said I would, and I did. Was that...was that wrong?”

“No,” Louis says softly. “I just can’t believe you did that for me.”

“I’d do a lot for you,” Bucky says, and each word feels like a sacrifice as he pushes it past his lips. He’s never felt this way about anyone, and telling Louis how he feels is terrifying. So he stops talking, and he reaches out with his metal arm, cradling Louis’ face in the palm of his hand. Louis closes his eyes and rubs his cheek back and forth, like a cat, and Bucky feels it down into his bones.

And then Louis opens his eyes and asks, “Can I kiss you?”

Bucky nods, and Louis cranes his neck up, and Bucky ducks his head slightly to meet him, both of them keeping their eyes open until the last moment, pulled together slow and steady and inevitable like magnets. Louis’ lips are chapped and dry, and his breath is sour from sleep, but his touch is so tender and warm, and his breath is so soft and frantic against Bucky’s mouth. He tilts his head slightly and kisses Bucky again, tongue flickering lightly against Bucky’s lips until he parts them.

And beneath his palm, Bucky feels the scratch of Louis’ beard, feels each hair individually and then all of them at once, feels the smoothness of his bare skin, feels the solidness of his bones and the hollow of his cheek, feels the rush of blood to his face through arterioles and capillaries, feels the molecules of air moving in and out of his mouth, feels the sensory receptors in his face feeling him, feels the action potentials firing and the synapses of his cranial nerves, feels the entirety of Louis’ being right there in his palm as Louis kisses him so sweetly and so insistently, and he holds Louis’ face in his trembling hand and lets himself be kissed, lets all of the information hit him at once until he can’t separate out the discrete components anymore, until he finally, finally stops thinking for once and just feels and feels and feels with everything he has.

“Oh god,” Louis says brokenly when he finally pulls back. He blinks at Bucky, and his eyes are slightly wet. “What the fuck? Wow.”

“Wow,” Bucky repeats softly, his thumb tracing an arc over Louis’ cheekbones.

Louis covers Bucky’s hand in both of his and gently pulls it away from his face. He looks at Bucky and smiles crookedly, then he looks down at Bucky’s hand, shiny and glittery in the morning light. In Louis’ hands, Bucky’s hand looks beautiful. Louis ducks his head and presses one sweet, warm kiss to the center of Bucky’s palm, and he feels it exquisitely. Then Louis folds Bucky’s fingers down and covers Bucky’s closed fist with his own hand. Bucky can still feel that kiss pulsing against his palm, he feels it like an actual tangible object, tucked inside his grasp for safe keeping. And he doesn’t let go.

*

“The last time you were here,” his S.H.I.E.L.D. appointed therapist tells him at their regularly scheduled meeting, “you mentioned a bucket list you’d come across online. There were several items on it that felt impossibly unattainable to you. How do you feel about that today?”

Bucky remembers that day, how disconnected he’d felt from the possibility of any lasting human connection. And then he thinks about the previous night, when he’d sat down by himself in his room and listened to Louis’ album for the first time, really immersed himself in this passion project of Louis’ that documented something that was once extremely visceral and real and immediate and is now just a piquant piece of his backstory, relegated to the past like everything is eventually.

He thinks about last week, when he finally texted Peter to let him know that he’s been seeing Louis this whole time, that he still doesn’t know what it is or what he wants it to be, but it’s something, and it’s going to be serious and wonderful. And Peter tried to take credit for setting the two of them up, and Bucky immediately deleted his contact before adding him back an hour later and texting him, _You’re full of shit if you think you had anything to do with this, but thank you for being my friend. Your support has always meant a lot to me._

He thinks about earlier this morning, getting his Americano at Starbucks. The regular cashier was chattier with him than usual, and he responded in kind, idly making small talk about the weather and the traffic and all the other minutiae he ordinarily can’t bear to discuss.

“You’ve been quiet for a while,” his therapist says. “What’s on your mind?”

And he responds to her with the same three words he had texted to Peter, the same words he used when the cashier this morning asked, _So what’s got you smiling so big today?_

“I met someone,” Bucky says.

*

 _Let’s get coffee !_ Louis had texted him, so Bucky walks into their usual Starbucks at the usual time. Louis has a fairly low regard for schedules, so it’s a surprise that not only is Louis there before him, but he’s already ordered and has a drink in each of his hands and a big smile on his face.

“Hiya,” Louis says, holding out a cup for Bucky.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, following Louis over to a small table by the window. He takes a sip from his drink, and it’s exactly his order, prepared exactly the way he likes it.

“Is it good?” Louis asks.

“It’s perfect,” Bucky says. “Thank you.”

“Good,” Louis says softly. He lightly kicks Bucky’s foot under the table, and Bucky nudges him back, and they smile at each other.

“Did Freddie make it back to Briana’s okay?”

“Mhmm.” Louis takes a long gulp from his drink. “I told her about you. I mean, she already knew about you. Obviously. Freddie told everyone in the city about how he beat the Winter Soldier. But, I told her. About us.”

“How did that go?”

“I think it was all right,” Louis says. “We both try to be careful with who we let into Freddie’s life. We don’t want him getting attached to someone we’re seeing before we know it’s serious. But she wants me to be happy. And I am.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course I am,” Louis says with a smile. “And I’d like you to spend some more time with Freddie, meet him properly this time. If that’s something you want.”

“I’d like that,” Bucky says, and he means it. He still doesn’t know anything at all about kids, but he knows Louis and his heart and his love for his son, and this is what he signed up for. He doesn’t need to understand all kids, but he needs to understand this one, and he thinks he can handle that.

“Great,” Louis says, and he looks relieved. “Maybe you can come by next week when I have him. Just something casual for an hour or so. Maybe pizza and video games.”

“I’m not any good at video games,” Bucky says.

“Even better,” Louis says with a sly smile. He puts his hand lightly on top of Bucky’s metal one. “Because I like to win.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Bucky says. Louis’ thumb is making small circles over Bucky’s wrist. Louis is so _tactile_ with his affection. Bucky’s still getting used to it, but he is. He’s getting used to it.

“This okay?” Louis asks softly. “Not too much?”

“It’s nice,” Bucky says. “Not too much. Just right.”

“Cheers,” Louis says. “So, what else does this arm of yours do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does it like...I dunno. Like, does it heat up?” Louis’ blushing a bit now.

“Heat up?”

“Or like...spin, or anything? Or like, vibrate?”

“Fuck off,” Bucky says with a smile. “My arm’s not a sex toy.”

“Not according to you,” Louis says, arching his eyebrow at Bucky. “Who knows what it’s even capable of, yeah?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as they finish their coffee quietly.

“I told people about you, too,” Bucky says a few minutes later. “Just so you know.”

“Yeah?” Louis looks so pleased and so lovely. “What did you tell them?”

“Just that you exist. That I like you. That we’re doing this, whatever ‘this’ is. Didn’t tell them you know my coffee order perfectly, but I’ll pass that along next time.”

“Cheers.”

“How _do_ you know my coffee order?” Bucky asks.

“Need to know these things,” Louis says, picking at the rim of his empty cup. “About, you know. Your boyfriend.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks softly. “Am I your boyfriend?”

“If you want to be,” Louis says. “This was my incredibly subtle way of asking you.”

“I’d like that,” Bucky says. “But I don’t know your order. You’re always so sly about it. What kind of boyfriend does that make me?”

“One who has some investigating to do, I suppose,” Louis says with a shrug. “You could taste it and try to guess.”

“But you already finished.”

“I didn’t say drink it,” Louis says, thumbing the corner of his mouth. “I said taste it.”

Louis leans across the table, slow and steady, keeping eye contact with Bucky the whole time. Everything about his controlled action seems to ask, _Is this okay? It’s okay if this isn’t okay._ But it is. It’s exhilarating and reckless, and someone in this damn Starbucks is bound to get a picture of them, and Peter is going to be insufferable when he finds out.

But.

Bucky squeezes Louis’ hand, feels the warmth of him and the pulse of his blood, and then he leans forward and kisses Louis gently, right there in public, right there in the middle of that Starbucks. He kisses him soft and sweet, and then he licks at Louis’ lips and right into his mouth, methodically and languidly tasting every last part of him. It’s electric, and it’s breathtaking, and it’s so, so easy to just lose himself in how good it feels to actually feel this good.

Bucky’s never done anything like this before. But people do things like this sometimes, and now, inexplicably, Bucky is one of those people.

“Well?” Louis asks breathlessly when Bucky pulls back. “What’s my order then?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky admits as Louis laughs. “Just tastes like coffee.”

“You’ll have to keep trying,” Louis says. His eyes are shining so bright, warm and happy and beautiful, and it’s all aimed at Bucky. It’s so much.

“Do you want to go whale-watching?” Bucky blurts out.

“What, like right now?”

“No, not right now. I don’t even know where you go to do that. Just...someday. Do you want to go whale-watching with me someday?”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “I really, really do.”

“Me too,” Bucky says, and he feels the smile stretching out his cheeks, sees it mirrored on Louis’ own face. “I really want that, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](http://1000-directions.tumblr.com/post/170672210719/tonight-make-me-unstoppable-by-1000directions-for)


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